/K.      yX 


s 


THE 

^ENEID   OF  VIRGIL. 

TRANSLATED  BY  0.  P.  CRANCH. 

Uniform  with  LONGFELLOW'S  Dante,  BRYANT'S 
Homer,  and  TAYLOR'S  Faust.     $5.00. 


"  We  do  not  hesitate  to  give  the  preference  to  Mr. 
Cranch's  version  over  any  translation  of  the  yEneid  with 
\vhicli  we  are  acquainted.  His  work  is  not  only  a  splen 
did  memorial  of  his  own  genius,  but  a  worthy  representa 
tion  of  the  immortal  Roman  bard."  —  New  York  Tribune. 


JAMES  R.  OSGOOD  &  CO.,  Publishers. 


THE 


BIRD  AND  THE  BELL, 


OTHER    POEMS. 


BY 


CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCII 


BOSTON: 
JAMES  R.  OSGOOD  AND   COMPANY, 

LATE  TICKNOR  &  FIELDS,  AND  FIELDS,  OSGOOD,  &  Co. 

1875. 


COPYRIGHT,  1875. 
BY  JAMES  R.  OSGOOD  &  CO. 


UNIVERSITY  PRESS  :  WELCH,  BIGELOW,  &  Co. 
CAMBRIDGE. 


As  one  who  in  some  cellar  crypt  lias  kept 
His  wines  of  many  an  autumn  vintage,  pressed 
Prom  wild  wood  grapes,  or  vineyard  fields  that  slept 
On  sunny  hillsides,  by  his  own  hand  dressed  ; 
And  calls  his  neighbors  in  to  taste  and  share 
His  store  ;  yet  overvaluing,  perchance, 
What  seemed  to  keep  for  him  a  flavor  rare 
Which  love  might  prize  when  critics  frown  askance  : 
So  to  my  board  I  bid  my  friends,  and  ope 
The  hoarded  flasks  of  many  a  varying  year,  — 
The  verse  from  lonely  dells  of  dreamland  won, 
Or  by  sweet  toiling  on  the  sun-flecked  slope 
Of  life,  ere  yet  my  summer  leaves  were  sere 
In  lengthening  shadows  of  the  sinking  sun. 


9JS9760 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

THE  BIRD  AND  THE  BELL 1 

THE  THREE  MUSES 23 

THE  SHADOWED  RIVER 35 

NOVEMBER  TREES 38 

THE  FLOWER  AND  THE  BEE 40 

THE  CATARACT  ISLE      . 42 

IN  THE  GARDEN 45 

IN  THE  PINE-\VOODS 46 

LUNA  THROUGH  A  LORGNETTE 47 

IN  THE  PALAIS  ROYAL  GARDEN 53 

CORNUCOPIA .55 

A  FRIEND      .........  59 

THE  AUTUMN  RAIN 63 

SPIRITS  IN  PRISON 65 

BLONDEL 69 

THE  OLD  DAYS  AND  THE  NEW 73 

AYHY? f 77 

THROUGH  THE  FIELDS  TO  ST.  PETER'S          ...  88 

MARION  DALE    . 95 

VEILS     .  100 


viii  CONTENTS. 

THE  SPIRIT  OF  THE  AGE  .......  106 

ATALANTA 109 

AL  HASSAN'S  SECRET 112 

MY  OLD  PALETTE 119 

THE  BOBOLINKS 121 

CRETE 125 

J.  R.  L.  ON  HIS  FIFTIETH  BIRTHDAY         ....  128 

SEA  SHADOWS 132 

THE  MOUNTAIN  PATH 137 

BIRD  LANGUAGE   .         . 141 

THE  CHANGING  YEAR       .         .         .         .         .         .         .  143 

SONG,  — " SOFT,  BROWN,  SMILING  EYES"      .        .        .  145 

THE  DREAM  OF  PILATE'S  WIFE 147 

THE  DISPUTE  OF  THE  SEVEN  DAYS      .         .         .         .  152 

A  THRUSH  IN  A  GILDED  CAGE         .         .         .         .         .156 

UNDER  THE  SKYLIGHT          .        .        .        .        .        .  158 

I  IN  THEE,  AND  THOU  IN  ME         .         .         .         .         .161 

ODE,  —  MARGARET  FULLER  OSSOLI       ....  163 

IAPIS         .        . 173 

THE  WORKSHOP  AND  THE  BRONZE        ....  183 

THE  EVENING  PRIMROSE.         .         ...         .         .  185 

IN  A  CHURCH      . 188 

DECEMBER        .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .190 

A  CHINESE  STORY 192 

A  SONG  OF  HOME    ........  195 

A  SPRING-GROWL         .......  197 

WAITING, BY  THE  SEA 200 

SHELLING  PEAS,  —  A  PASTORAL 203 

Louis  NAPOLEON  207 


CONTENTS.  ix 

BY  THE  SHORE  OF  THE  RIVER 214 

THE  AMERICAN  PANTHEON 217 

IN  THE  FOREST  OF  FONTAINEBLEAU     ....  220 

A  DAY  OF  MEMORIES 223 

THE  GUEST        ........         .         .         .         .  227 

OCTOBER.         .         .         .  / 229 

To  A  HALF-FRIEND 231 

Music       .         ..........         .         .         .  234 

COMPENSATION      .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .  238 

A  BATTLE  OF  THE  ELEMENTS 241 

MEMORIAL  HALL          . .       . .       .         .         .         .         .  244 

DREAM-LIFE     .         . 247 

THE  CENTURY  AND  THE  NATION, — $  B  K  POEM         .  231 

THE  LAY  OF  THUYM  ;  OR,  THE  HAMMER  RECOVERED      .  270 

MICHAEL  ANGELO  BUONAROTTI 277 

ON  RE-READING  TENNYSON'S  PRINCESS  ....  283 

SONNETS. 

THE  HIGHER  LAW 2S7 

CIRCUMSTANCE 288 

SHAKESPEARE 289 

THE  GARDEN 290 

THE  GARDEN  (continued) 291 

To  G.  \V.  C .         .  292 

To  W.  \V.  S. 293 

To  W.  W.  S 294 

To  0.  B.  F 295 

To  0.  B.  P.  (continued) 29(5 

YOUTH  AND  AGE  .  297 


X  CONTENTS. 

POEMS    OE    THE   WAR. 

THE  BURIAL  OF  THE  FLAG 301 

THE  HOSE  OF  DEATH,  —  A  BALLAD     ....  304 

NOVEMBER  8m,  1864        .......        .        .        .309 

SONNETS  FOR  THE  TIMES. 

I.   THE  DARK  TOWER    .        ..       .        .        .        .  321 

II.   DELIVERANCE        .        .        .......        .  322 

III.   THE  ABOLITIONISTS 323 

IV.   THE  DAWN  OF  PEACE 324 

V.   THE  DEATH-BLOW    .         .         .         .         .         .  325 

VI.    THE  MARTYR 326 

VII.   OUR  COUNTRY 327 


THE  BIRD  AND  THE  BELL, 


\VITH 


OTHER  POEMS. 


I  HE  reader  will  find  in  this  poem  allusions  to  events  which  have 
passed  in  Italy,  —  fluent  when  the  lines  were  written,  hut  now 
crystallized  into  history,  —  and  prophecies,  some  of  which  have 
come,  or  are  coming  true,  while  others  have  been  fulfilled  otherwise 
than  was  foreboded.  These  passages  of  the  poem  may  therefore 
lose  somewhat  of  the  flavor  they  might  have  had  if  read  at  that 
period.  The  rapid  and  wonderful  scene-shifting,  too,  that  has  gone 
on  in  the  great  European  theatre  of  Church  and  State  may  have  the 
effect  of  dimming  their  freshness  somewhat.  But  the  thoughts  and 
principles  here  embodied  can  never  cease  to  interest  all  who  care 
for  liberty  of  thought  and  speech,  and  will  maintain  a  supreme  im 
portance  so  long  as  the  Romish  Church  holds  to  its  assumptions  in 
the  face  of  the  nineteenth  century. 

If  much  of  the  language  in  these  verses  apostrophizing  this 
mighty  organization  seems  too  unqualified  and  denunciatory,  it  will 
be  seen  that  I  have  endeavored  to  give  praise  also  where  I  felt  it 
to  be  due.  But  the  poem  was  written  in  Catholic  Europe,  where  I 
was  daily  impressed  with  characteristics  which  stood  out  more  baldly 
prominent  than  any  which  come  to  our  notice  in  America. 


THE  BIRD  AND  THE  BELL 


i. 

T  WAS  earliest  morning  in  the  early  spring, 
In  Florence.     Winter,  dark  and  damp  and  chill, 
Had  yielded  to  the  fruit-trees'  blossoming, 
Though  sullen  rains  swept  from  the  mountains  still. 
The  tender  green  scarce  seemed  to  have  a  will 
To  peep  above  the  sod  and  greet  the  sky,  — 
Like  an  o'er-timid  child  who  dreads  a  stranger's  eye. 

ir. 

The  city  slumbered  in  the  dawning  day;  — 
Old  towers  and  domes  and  roof-tiles  looming  dim, 
Bridges  and  narrow  streets  and  cloisters  gray, 
And  sculptured  churches,  where  the  Latin  hymn 
By  lamplight  called  to  mass.     As  o'er  a  limb 
The  spells  of  witchcraft  strong  but  noiseless  fall, 
The  shadows  of  the  Past  reigned  silent  over  all. 

1  A 


2  THE   BIRD   AND   THE   BELL. 

III. 
•  ^Wddrig  from  sleep,  I  heard,  but  knew  not  where, 

A  bird,  that  sang  alone  its  early  song. 
\  ;  Xhn  quick)  clear  wavlxle  leaping  through  the  air,  — 
The  voice  of  spring,  that  all  the  winter  long 
Had  slept,  —  nuw  burst  in  melodies  as  strong 
And  tremulous  as  Love's  first  pure  delight ;  — 
I  could  not  choose,  but  bless  a  song  so  warm  and  bright. 

IV. 

Sweet  bird  !  the  fresh,  clear  sprinkle  of  thy  voice 
Came  quickening  all  the  springs  of  trust  and  love. 
What  heart  could  hear  such  joy,  and  not  rejoice  ? 
Thou  blithe  remembrancer  of  field  and  grove, 
Dropping  thy  fairy  flute-notes  from  above, 
Fresh  message  from  the  Beauty  Infinite 
That  clasps  the  world  around  and  fills  it  with  delight ! 

v. 

It  bore  me  to  the  breeze-swept  banks  of  bloom, 
To  trees  and  falling  waters,  and  the  rush 
Of  south-winds  sifting  through  the  pine-grove's  gloom 
Home-gardens  filled  with  roses,  and  the  gush 
Of  insect-trills  in  grass  and  roadside  bush ; 
And  apple-orchards  flushed  with  blossoms  sweet ; 
And  all  that  makes  the  round  of  nature  most  complete. 


THE  BIRD   AND  THE   BELL.  3 

VI. 

It  sang  of  freedom,  dimmed  by  no  alloy ; 
Peace,  unpossessed  upon  our  troubled  sphere  ; 
Some  long  Arcadian  day  of  love  and  joy, 
Unsoiled  by  fogs  of  superstitious  fear ; 
A  world  of  noble  beings  born  to  cheer 
The  wilderness  of  life,  and  prove  the  fact 
Of  human  grandeur  in  each  thought  and  word  and  act. 

VII. 

What  was  it  jarred  the  vision  and  the  spell, 
And  brought  the  reflux  of  the  day  and  place  ? 
Athwart  the  bird's  song  clanged  a  brazen  bell. 
Nature's  improvisations  could  not  face 
That  domineering  voice ;  and  in  the  race 
Of  rival  tongues  the  Bell  outrang  the  Bird,  — 
The  swinging,  clamoring  brass  which  all  the  city  heard. 

VIII. 

Santa  Maria  Novella's  Church,  hard  by, 
Calling  its  worshippers  to  morning  prayer, 
From  its  old  Campanile  lifted  high 
In  the  dull  dampness  of  the  clouded  air, 
Poured  out  its  monotones,  and  did  not  spare 
Its  ringing  shocks  of  unremitting  sound, 
That  soon  my  warbler's  notes  were  swept  away  and  drowned. 


4  THE   BIRD   AND   THE   BELL. 

IX. 

Down  from  the  time-stained  belfry  clanged  the  bell, 
Joined  in  a  moment  by  a  hundred  more. 
Had  I  not  heard  the  bird,  I  might  have  well 
Floated  on  that  sonorous  flood  that  bore 
Away  all  living  voices,  as  with  roar 
Of  deep  vibrations,  grand,  monastic,  bold, 
Through  street  and  stately  square  the  metal  music  rolled. 

x. 

Oft  have  I  listened  in  the  dead  of  night, 
When  all  those  towers  like  chanting  priests  have  prayed  ; 
And  the  weird  tones  seemed  tangled  in  the  height 
Of  palaces,  —  as  though  all  Florence  made 
One  great  ghost-organ,  and  the  pipes  that  played 
"Were  the  dark  channelled  streets,  pouring  along 
In  beats  and  muffled  swells  the  deep  resounding  song. 

XI. 

So  now  the  incessant  peal  filled  all  the  air, 
And  the  sweet  bird-voice,  utterly  forced  away, 
Ceased.     And  it  seemed  as  if  some  spirit  fail- 
Were  hurled  into  oblivion  ;  and  the  day 
Grew  suddenly  more  darkly,  grimly  gray, 
Like  a  vast  inert-cloth  stretched  from  south  to  north, 
While  that  tyrannic  voice  still  rang  its  mandates  forth. 


THE   BIRD  AND  THE   BELL. 
XII. 

And  so  I  mused  upon  the  things  that  were, 
And  those  that  should  be,  or  that  might  have  been ; 
And  felt  a  life  and  freedom  in  the  air, 
And  in  the  sprouting  of  the  early  green, 
I  could  not  match  with  man,  who  builds  his  screen 
Darkening  the  sun,  and  in  his  own  light  stands, 
And  casts  the  shadow  of  himself  along  the  lands. 

XIII. 

For  him  who  haunts  the  temples  of  the  Past, 
And  shapes  his  fond  ideals  by  its  rules ; 
Whose  creed,  whose  labors,  are  but  thoughts  recast 
In  worn  and  shrunken  moulds  of  antique  schools,  — 
Copies  of  copies,  wrought  with  others'  tools  ; 
For  whom  law  stands  for  justice,  Church  for  God, 
Symbol  for  fact,  for  right  divine  the  tyrant's  rod ;  — 

XIV. 

Who  fears  to  utter  what  his  reason  bids, 
Unless  it  wears  the  colors  of  a  sect ; 
Who  hardly  dares  to  lift  his  heavy  lids, 
And  greet  the  coming  Day  with  head  erect, 
But  apes  each  general  posture  and  defect 
Entailed  by  time,  —  alert  in  others'  tracks, 
Like  owls  that  build  in  some  time-mantled  ruin's  cracks;- 


6  THE   BIRD   AND   THE   BELL. 

XV. 

For  him  yon  clanging  Bell  a  symbol  bears, 
That  deadens  every  natural  voice  of  spring. 
Fitter  for  him  the  croaking  chant,  the  prayers, 
The  torch,  the  cross,  the  censer's  golden  swing, 
The  organ-fugue,  —  a  prisoned  eagle's  wing 
Beating  the  frescoed  dome,  —  the  empty  feast 
Where  at  his  tinselled  altar  stands  the  gay -robed  priest. 

XVI. 

O  mighty  Church  !  who,  old,  but  still  adorned 
With  jewels  of  thy  youth,  —  a  wrinkled  bride 
Affianced  to  the  blind,  —  so  long  hast  scorned 
The  rising  of  the  inevitable  tide 
That  swells  and  surges  up  against  thy  pride,  — 
Thou,  less  the  artist's  than  the  tyrant's  nurse, 
Blight  of  philosophy,  false  star  of  poet's  verse  !  — 

XVII. 

What  though  thy  forms  be  picturesque  and  old, 
And,  clustered  round  thee,  works  of  noblest  art 
Hallow  thy  temples  !     Once  they  may  have  told 
Profound  emotions  of  the  inmost  heart ; 
Now  shadowed  by  a  faith  that  stands  apart, 
And  scowls  against  the  sunlight  shared  abroad, 
Burning  in  altar-nooks  its  candles  to  its  god  ! 


THE    BIRD  AND   THE   BELL.  7 

XVIII. 

The  saints  who  toiled  to  help  the  world's  distress ; 
The  noble  lords  of  thought  and  speech  divine  ; 
The  prophets  crying  through  Time's  wilderness  ; 
The  vast  discoveries,  the  inventions  fine 
That  stamped  upon  the  centuries  a  sign 
Of  grandeur,  —  all,  like  music  thundered  down 
By  stern  cathedral  bells,  were  silenced  by  thy  frown. 

XIX. 

Chained  to  Madonnas  and  ascetic  saints, 
Even  Art  itself  felt  thy  all-narrowing  force. 
The  painter  saw  thee  peeping  o'er  his  paints ; 
The  sculptor's  thought  was  fettered  from  its  source  ; 
Thy  gloomy  cloisters  shaped  the  builder's  course ; 
Thy  organ  drowned  the  shepherd's  festive  flute 
With  penitential  groans,  as  though  God's  love  were  mute. 

xx. 

And  yet,  because  there  lurked  some  element 
Of  truth  within  the  doctrine,  —  to  man's  need 
Some  fitness  in  the  form ;  since  more  was  meant 
And  more  expressed  than  in  the  accepted  creed,  — 
The  artist's  genius  giving  far  less  heed 
To  formulas  than  to  his  own  ideal,  — 
The  hand  and  heart  wrought  works  the  world  has  stamped 
as  real. 


o  THE   BIRD  AND   THE   BELL. 

XXI. 

What  didst  thou  for  the  already  teeming  soil 
Of  souls  like  Dante,  Raphael,  Angelo, 
Save  to  suggest  a  theme  or  pay  their  toil  ? 
While  they  o'erlooked  their  prison  walls,  and  so 
Caught  from  the  skies  above  and  earth  below 
Splendors  wherewith  they  lit  thy  tarnished  crown, 
And  clothed  thee  with  a  robe  thou  claimest  as  thine  own. 

XXII. 

Names  that  in  any  age  would  have  been  great, 
Works  that  to  all  time  speak,  and  so  belong, 
Claim  not  as  thine ;  nor  subsidize  the  fate 
That  gave  them  to  the  nations  for  a  long, 
Unceasing  heritage.     Amid  a  throng 
Of  starry  lights  they  live.     Thy  clanging  bells 
Can  never  drown  their  song,  nor  break  their  mighty  spells. 

XXIII. 

No  mother  thou  of  Genius,  but  the  nurse. 
Seek,  not  to  stamp  a  vulgar  name  upon 
The  sons  of  Morning.     Take  the  Poet's  verse, 
But  not  the  Poet.     He  is  not  thy  son. 
Enough  for  thee,  if  sometimes  he  hath  gone 
Into  thy  narrow  fold  from  pastures  wide, 
Where  through  immortal  flowers  God  pours  the  living  tide. 


THE   BIRD    AND   THE   BELL. 

XXIV. 

Enough  if  he  hath  decked  thee  with  the  wealth 
Of  his  heaven-nurtured  spirit,  —  showering  gems 
Of  thought  and  fancy,  coining  youth  and  health 
To  gild  with  fame  thy  papal  diadems ; 
Plucking  life's  roses  with  their  roots  and  stems 
To  wreathe  an  altar  which  returned  him  naught 
But  the  poor  patronage  of  some  suspected  thought. 

XXV. 

What  didst  thou  for  the  studious  sage  who  saw 
Through  nature's  veils  the  great  organic  force,  — 
Who  sought  and  found  the  all-pervading  law 
That  holds  the  rolling  planets  in  their  course  ? 
When  didst  thou  fail  to  check  the  flowing  source 
Of  truths  whose  waters  needs  must  inundate 
The  theologic  dikes  that  guarded  thy  estate  ? 

XXVI. 

Is  there  a  daring  thought  thou  hast  not  crushed  ? 
Is  there  a  generous  faith  thou  hast  not  cursed  ? 
Is  there  a  whisper,  howe'er  low  and  hushed, 
Breathed  for  the  future,  but  thou  wast  the  first 
To  silence  with  thy  tortures,  —  thou  the  worst 
Of  antichrists,  and  cunningest  of  foes 
That  ever  against  God  and  man's  great  progress  rose  ? 
1* 


10        THE  BIRD  AND  THE  BELL. 

XXVII. 

Yet  life  was  in  thce  once.     Thy  earlier  youth 
Was  flushed  with  blossoms  of  a  heavenly  bloom. 
Thy  blight  began,  when  o'er  Grod's  common  truth 
And  man's  nobility  thou  didst  assume 
The  dread  prerogative  of  life  and  doom  ; 
And  creeds  which  served  as  swaddling-bands  were  bound 
Like  grave-clothes  round  the  limbs  laid  living  under  ground. 

XXVIII. 

When  man  grows  wiser  than  his  creed  allows, 
And  nobler  than  the  church  he  has  outgrown  ; 
When  that  which  was  his  old  familiar  house 
No  longer  is  a  home,  but  all  alone, 
Alone  with  God,  he  dares  to  lift  the  stone 
Prom  off  the  skylight  between  heaven  and  him,  — 
Then  shines  a  grander  day,  then  fade  the  spectres  grim. 

XXIX. 

And  never  yet  was  growth,  save  when  it  broke 
The  letter  of  the  dead  scholastic  form. 
The  bark  drops  off,  and  leaves  the  expanding  oak 
To  stretch  his  giant  arms  through  sun  and  storm. 
The  idols  that  upon  his  breast  lay  warm 
The  sage  throws  down,  and  breaks  their  hallowed  shrine, 
And  follows  the  great  hand  that  points  to  light  divine. 


THE   BIRD   AND  THE   BELL.  11 

XXX. 

But  thou,  0  Church !  didst  steal  the  mother's  mask, 
The  counterfeit  of  Heaven,  —  so  to  enfold 
Thy  flock  around  thee.     None  looked  near,  to  ask 
"  Art  thou  our  mother,  truly  ?  "     None  so  bold 
As  lift  thy  veils,  and  show  how  hard  and  cold 
Those  eyes  of  tyranny,  that  mouth  of  guile, 
That  low  and  narrow  brow,  the  witchcraft  of  that  smile,  — 

XXXI. 

That  subtle  smile,  deluding  while  it  warmed ; 
That  arrogant,  inquisitorial  nod  ; 
That  hand  that  stabbed,  like  Herod,  the  new-formed 
And  childlike  life  which  drew  its  breath  from  God, 
And,  for  that  star  by  which  the  Magi  trod 
The  road  to  Bethlehem,  the  Good  Shepherd's  home, 
Lit  lurid  idol-fires  on  thy  seven  hills  of  Rome. 

XXXII. 

Rome,  paralyzed  and  dumb,  —  who  sat  a  queen 
Among  the  nations,  now  thy  abject  slave ; 
Yet  muttering  in  her  cell,  where  gaunt  and  lean 
Thy  priests  have  kept  her  pining  !     Who  shall  save 
And  lift  the  captive  from  her  living  grave  ? 
Is  there  no  justice  left  to  avert  her  doom, 
Where  monarchs  sit  and  play  their  chess-games  on  her 
tomb  ? 


12  THE   BIRD   AND  THE   BELL. 

XXXIII. 

And  them,  too,  Venice,  moaning  by  the  sea, 
Which  moans  and  chafes  with  thee,  on  Lido's  beach,  — 
Thou,  almost  in  despair  lest  there  should  be 
In  Europe's  life  no  life  within  thy  reach,  > 

No  respite  from  thy  tyrant,  —  thou  shalt  teach 
Thy  Austrian  despot  yet  what  hoarded  hate 
And  sudden  strength  can  do  to  change  thy  sad  estate ! 

XXXIV. 

I    For,  lo,  the  fires  are  kindled.     Hark  !  afar, 
At  last  the  thunders  mutter  under  ground, 
The  northern  lights  flash  cimeters  of  war, 
Sardinia's  trumpets  to  the  battle  sound. 
See  Florence,  Parma,  Modena,  unbound, 
Leap  to  their  feet,  —  and  stout  Komagna  brave 

The  Cardinal's  frown,  and  swear  to  cower  no  more  a  slave  ! 

XXXV. 

See  Sicily,  whose  blood  is  Etna's  veins 
Of  sleepless  fire,  heave  with  volcanic  pants, 
Seething,  a  restless  surge  of  hearts  and  brains, 
Till  Garibaldi's  quick  Ithuriel  lance 
Wakes  the  whole  South  from  its  long,  troubled  trance, 
And  Naples,  catching  the  contagious  flame, 
Welcomes  her  hero  in  with  blessings  on  his  name  ! 


THE   BIRD   AND   THE   BELL.  13 

XXXVI. 

The  nations  that  in  darkness  sat  have  seen 
The  light.     The  blind  receive  their  sight  again. 
The  querulous  old  man  who  stands  between 
His  children  and  their  hopes,  with  threats  insane, 
Trembles,  as  though  an  earthquake  split  in  twain 
The  crumbling  rock  beneath  Saint  Peter's  dome  ; 
And  the  last  hiding-place  of  tyranny  —  is  Home. 

XXXVII. 

For  Italy,  long  pining,  sad,  and  crushed, 
Has  hurled  her  royal  despots  from  the  land. 
Back  to  her  wasted  heart  the  blood  has  gushed. 
Her  wan  cheek  blooms,  and  her  once  nerveless  hand 
Guides  with  firm  touch  the  purpose  she  has  planned. 
Thank  God  !  thank  generous  France  !  the  battle  smoke 
Lifts  from  her  bloody  fields.     See,  at  her  feet  her  yoke  ! 

XXXVIII. 

Not  like  a  maddened  anarch  does  she  rise : 
The  torch  she  holds  is  no  destroying  flame, 
But  a  clear  beacon,  —  like  her  own  clear  eyes 
Straining  across  the  war-clouds ;  and  the  shame 
Of  wild  misrule  has  never  stained  her  name. 
Calm  and  determined,  politic  yet  bold, 
She  comes  to  take  her  place,  —  the  Italy  of  old. 


THE   BIRD   AND   THE   BELL. 

XXXIX. 

She  asks  no  "boon,  except  to  stand  enrolled 
Among  the  nations.     Give  her  space  and  air, 
Our  Sister.     She  has  pined  in  dungeons  cold. 
A  little  sunshine  for  our  Sister  fair, 
A  little  hope  to  cover  past  despair. 
God's  blessing  on  the  long-lost,  the  unbound  ! 
The  earth  has  waited  long  ;    the  heavens  now  answer  — 
"  Found !  " 

XL. 

The  nations  greet  her  as  some  lovely  guest 
Arriving  late,  where  friends  pour  out  the  wine. 
Ay,  press  around,  and  pledge  her  in  the  best 
Your  table  yields,  and  in  her  praise  combine  ! 
And  ye  who  love  her  most,  press  near,  and  twine 
Her  locks  with  wreaths,  and  in  her  large  dark  eyes 
See  all  her  sorrowing  past,  and  her  great  future  rise  ! 

XLI. 

But  thou  who  claim'st  the  keys  of  God's  own  heaven, 
And  who  wouldst  fain  usurp  the  keys  of  earth,  — 
Thou,  leagued  with  priests  and  tyrants  who  have  given 
Their  hands,  and  pledged  their  oaths  to  blight  the  birth 
Of  thine  own  children's  rights,  • —  for  scorn  and  mirth 
One  day  shalt  stand,  thy  juggling  falsehoods  named, 
Thy   plots   and  wiles  unmasked,  thy  heaven-high   titles 
shamed ! 


THE   BIRD   AND  THE   BELL.  15 

XLII. 

Look  to  the  proud  tiara  on  thy  brow  ! 
Its  gems  shall  crush  thee  down  like  leaden  weights. 
Thy  alchemy  is  dead ;  and  wouldst  thou  now 
Thunder  anathemas  against  the  states 
Whose  powers  are  Time's  irrefragable  fates  ? 
Look  to  thy  glories  !  they  must  shrink  away,  — 
With  meaner  pomp  must  fall,  and  sink  into  decay. 

XLIII. 

Lo,  thou  art  numbered  with  the  things  that  were, 
Soon  to  be  laid  upon  the  dusty  shelves 
Of  antiquaries,  —  once  so  strong  and  fair, 
Now  classed  with  spells  of  magic,  midnight  elves, 
And  all  half-lies,  that  pass  away  themselves 
When  once  a  people  rises  to  the  light 
Of  primal  truths  and  comprehends  its  heaven-born  right. 

XLIV. 

Toil  on ;  but  little  canst  thou  do  to-day. 
The  sun  is  risen.     The  daylight  dims  thy  shrines. 
The  age  outstrips  thee,  inarching  on  its  way, 
And  overflowing  all  thy  boundary  lines. 
How  art  thou  fallen,  O  star  !     How  lurid  shines 
Thy  taper  underneath  the  glowing  sky  ! 
How  feeble  grows  thy  voice,  how  lustreless  thine  eye  ! 


16  THE   BIRD   AND   THE   BELL. 

XLV. 

Like  some  huge  shell  left  by  the  ebbing  tide, 
In  which  once  dwelt  some  wonder  of  the  sea, 
Thou  liest,  and  men  know  not  that  thy  pride 
Of  plaee  outlives  thy  earlier  potency, 
But,  coming  nearer  to  thy  mystery, 
Might  call  thee  lovely,  did  not  thy  decay 
And  death-like  odor  drive  them  in  contempt  away. 

XLVI. 

So  perish  like  thee  all  lies  stereotyped 
By  human  power  or  devilish  artifice,  — 
Dark  blot  on  Christ's  pure  shield,  soon  to  be  wiped 
Away,  and  leave  it  fair  for  Heaven's  free  kiss  ; 
So  perish  like  thee,  drowned  in  Time's  abyss, 
All  that  hath  robbed  strong  Genius  of  its  youth, 
All  that  hath  ever  barred  the  struggling  soul  from  truth ! 

XLVII. 

And  yet  we  need  not  boast  our  larger  scope 
In  this  broad  land,  if  creeds  of  later  stamp 
Still  cast  their  gloom  o'er  manhood's  dearest  hope, 
Still  quench  the  heavenward  flame  of  Reason's  lamp, 
And  dogmas  shamed  by  science  still  can  cramp 
The  aspiring  soul  in  dungeons  scarce  less  drear 
Than  those  of  older  times,  when  faith  was  one  with  fear. 


THE   BIRD   AND   THE   BELL.  17 

XLVIII. 

Nor  dream  that  here  the  inquisitorial  chair 
Is  but  a  byword,  though  we  flush  and  weep 
In  honest  indignation,  when  we  hear 
Chains  clank  in  Eome,  and  wonder  how  the  cheap 
And  common  truth  of  Heaven  must  cringe,  and  creep, 
And  mask  its  face,  lest  Mother  Church  disown 
The  rebel  thought  that  flouts  the  apostolic  throne  ! 

XLIX. 

If  we  indeed  are  sure  our  faith  is  best, 
Then  may  we  dare  to  leave  it  large  and  free, 
Nor  fear  to  bring  the  creed  to  reason's  test ; 
For  best  is  strongest,  fearing  not  to  see 
As  well  as  feel.     Then  welcome,  Liberty  ! 
Down  with  the  scaffolding  the  priest  demands ! 
Let  Truth  stand  free,  alone,  a  house  not  built  with  hands ! 

L. 

Down  with  the  useless  and  the  rotting  props 
That  only  cumber  and  deface  each  wall ! 
Off  with  the  antiquated  cloth  that  drops 
Moth-eaten  draperies  round  the  columns  tall. 
Nor  needs  the  heavenly  Architect  our  small 
Superfluous  tricks  of  ornament  and  gilt, 
To  deck  the  royal  courts  his  wisdom  planned  and  built, 


18  THE   BIRD   AND   THE   BELL. 

LI. 

He  wills  a  temple  beautiful  and  wide 
As  man  and  nature,  —  not  a  cloister  dim, 
Nor  strange  pagoda  of  barbaric  pride 
Scrawled  o'er  with  hieroglyph  and  picture  grim 
Of  saint  and  fiend.     Why  seek  to  honor  him 
By  crusting  o'er  with  gold  of  Palestine 
The  simple,  stainless  dome  whose  builder  is  divine  ? 

LII. 

Thanks  to  the  Central  Good,  the  inflowing  Power, 
The  Primal  Life  in  which  we  live  and  move,  — 
The  aroma  of  the  soul,  the  passion-flower 
We  bear  upon  our  hearts,  the  deathless  love 
Of  right,  outlives  device,  and  floats  above 
All  human  creeds,  though  armed  with  power  to  brave 
The  scholar's  daring  thought,  and  make  the  world  their 
slave. 

LIII. 

The  music  of  the  soul  can  ne'er  be  mute. 
What  though  the  brazen  clang  of  antique  form 
Stop  for  a  hundred  years  the  angel's  lute, 
The  angel  smiles,  and  when  the  deafening  storm 
Has  pealed  along  the  ages,  with  the  warm 
Touch  the  immortals  own,  he  sings  again, 
Clearer  and  sweeter,  like  the  sunshine  after  rain. 


THE   BIRD   AND  THE   BELL.  10 

LIV. 

He  sings  the  song  no  tyrant  long  resists ; 
lie  sings  the  song  the  world  perforce  must  join, 
Though  ages  stand  as  notes.     For  he  insists 
With  such  sweet  emphasis,  such  chords  divine, 
That,  soon  or  late,  along  the  living  line 
Of  hearts  that  form  Humanity,  there  thrills 
A  sympathetic  nerve  no  time  or  custom  kills. 

LV. 

Humanity  must  answer  when  God  speaks, 
As  sure  as  echo  to  the  human  voice. 
And  every  grand  o'ertopping  lie  which  breaks 
With  furious  flood  and  century-deafening  noise 
In  the  eternal  symphony  that  joys 
Along,  is  bin:  some  baser  pipe  or  chord 
That  shall  be  tuned  again  when  Kcason  sits  as  lord. 

LVI. 

Eternal  Truth  shines  on  o'er  Error's  cloud, 
Which,  for  a  little,  veils  the  living  light. 
.Therefore,  though  the  true  bard  may  sing  aloud 
His  soul-song  in  the  unrcceptive  night, 
His  words  —  swift,  arrowy  fires  —  must  fly  and  light, 
Sooner  or  later,  kindling  south  and  north, 
Till  skulking  Falsehood  from  her  den  be  hunted  forth. 


20  THE  BIRD  AND   THE   BELL. 

LVII. 

Work  on,  0  fainting  hearts !  Through  storm  and  drouth, 
Somewhere  your  winged  heart-seeds  will  be  blown, 
And  plant  a  living  grove  ;  —  from  mouth  to  mouth, 
O'er  oceans,  into  speech  and  lands  unknown, 
Even  till  the  long-foreseen  result  be  grown 
To  ripeness,  rilled  like  fruit  with  other  seed, 
Which  Time  shall  sow  anew,  and  reap  when  men  shall  need. 

LVIII. 

There  is  no  death,  but  only  change  on  change. 
The  life-force  of  all  forms,  in  tree  and  flower, 
In  rocks  and  rivers,  and  in  clouds  that  range 
Through  heaven,  in  grazing  beasts,  and  in  the  power 
Of  mind,  goes  forth  forever,  an  unspent  dower, 
Glowing  and  flashing  through  the  universe, 
Kindling  the  light  of  stars,  and  joy  of  poet's  verse  ! 

LTX. 

Each  hour  and  second  is  the  marriage-morn 
Of  spirit-life  and  matter ;  as  when  kings 
Wed  peasants,  and  their  simple  charms  adorn 
With  Oriental  gems  and  sparkling  rings 
And  diadems,  and  with  all  royal  things 
Making  their  eyes  familiar,  —  so,  with  tones 
Sweet  and  unheard  before,  conduct  them  to  their  thrones. 


THE   BIRD   AND   THE   BELL.  21 

LX. 

One  mighty  circle  God  in  heaven  hath  set, 
Woven  of  myriad  links,  —  lives,  deaths  unknown,  — 
Where  all  beginnings  and  all  ends  are  met 
To  follow  and  serve  each  other,  —  Nature's  zone 
And  zodiac,  round  whose  seamless  arc  are  strewn 
A  million  and  a  million  hues  of  light 
That  blend  and  glow  and  burn,  beyond  our  realm  of  night. 

LXI. 

O  ye  who  pined  in  dungeons  for  the  sake 
Of  truths  which  tyrants  shadowed  with  their  hate  ; 
Whose  only  crime  was  that  ye  were  awake 
Too  soon,  or  that  your  brothers  slept  too  late,  — 
Mountainous  minds  !  upon  whose  tops  the  great 
Sunrise  of  knowledge  came,  long  ere  its  glance 
Fell  on  the  foggy  swamps  of  fear  and  ignorance,  — 

LXII. 

The  time  shall  come  when  from  your  heights  serene 
Beyond  the  dark,  ye  will  look  back  and  smile 
To  see  the  sterile  earth  all  growing  green, 
Where  Science,  Art,  and  Love  repeat  Heaven's  style 
In  crowded  city  and  on  desert  isle, 
Till  Eden  blooms  Avhere  martyr-fires  have  burned, 
And  to  the  Lord  of  Life  all  hearts  and  minds  are  turned. 


22  THE   13IRD   AND  THE   BELL. 

LXIII. 

The  seeds  are  planted,  and  the  spring  is  near. 
Ages  of  blight  are  but  a  fleeting  frost. 
Truth  circles  into  truth.     Each  mote  is  dear 
To  God.     No  drop  of  ocean  e'er  is  lost, 
No  leaf  forever  dry  and  tempest-tossed. 
Life  centres  deathless  underneath  decay, 
And  no  true  word  or  deed  can  ever  pass  away. 

LXIV. 

And  ye,  O  Seraphs  in  the  morn  of  time  ! 
Birds  whose  entrancing  voices  in  the  spring 
Of  primal  Truth  and  Beauty,  were  the  chime 
Of  heaven  and  earth  !  still  we  may  hear  you  sing. 
No  clang  of  hierarclial  bells  shall  ring, 
To  drown  your  carol,  in  the  airs  that  move 
And  stir  the  dawning  age  of  Liberty  and  Love  ! 

LXV. 

Light,  —  light  breaks  on  the  century's  farthest  round  ; 
Light  in  the  sky,  light  in  the  humblest  home. 
The  unebbing  tides  of  God,  where  errors  drowned 
Sink  down  to  fathomless  destruction,  come 
Swelling  amain.     Truth  builds  her  eternal  dome 
Vast  as  the  sky.     Nations  are  linked  in  one. 
Light,  Love,  henceforth  shall  reign  forever  and  alone  ! 


THE  THREE  MUSES. 


IN  a  deep  vale  enclosed  by  mountains  steep, 

A  still,  green  sheltered  nook  hid  for  away, 

Where  grand  old  forest-trees  in  shadowy  sleep 

Nodded  above  a  stream  that  all  the  day 

Rin  rippling  down  o'er  sun-flecked  rocks  and  stones, 

And  filled  the  air  with  murmuring  undertones ; 

Where  from  the  sky  the  golden  sun  of  June 

Shed  softened  radiance  through  the  stillest  noon  ; 

And  in  the  verdure  of  the  oaks  that  spread 

Their  gnarled  and  mossy  branches  overhead, 

The  shy  thrush  trilled  his  liquid  clarionet 

Minute  by  minute,  with  his  soul  all  set 

To  music  in  each  gush  of  peerless  tone, 

While  with  a  bubbling  base  the  brook  played  on  ;  — 

Deep  in  that  vale  so  dreamy,  still,  and  cool, 

A  youth  lay  tranced,  till  visionary  things 

Seemed  real,  and  his  heart  was  over-full 

Of  thoughts  and  fancies  and  imaginings. 


24  THE  THREE   MUSES. 

And  as  he  mused  beside  the  flowing  stream, 
There  came  to  him  what  seemed  a  waking  dream. 
Three  radiant  forms  he  saw  before  him  stand, — 
Three  woodland  nymphs,  perchance,  he  thought, — who  met 
His  wondering  gaze,  each  with  a  beckoning  hand, 
While  he,  abashed,  bewildered,  stood.     And  yet  — 
For  so  our  dreams  will  mix  our  memories  dim  — 
Not  all  unknown  their  faces  seemed  to  him. 
And  he  was  bound,  as  by  a  spell,  to  choose 
One  of  the  three  to  be  his  guiding  muse. 

So  stood  they  beckoning,  and  yet  stood  apart, 
As  if  a  separate  purpose  each  impelled ; 
While  a  divided  worship  in  his  heart 
In  doubtful  poise  his  soul  and  senses  held. 

"  Strange,  —  it  was  so  in  Ida's  vale,"  he  mused, 

"  The  shepherd-prince,  abashed,  perplexed,  confused, 

Stood  in  the  presence  of  the  radiant  Three, 

To  choose  the  goddess  of  his  destiny. 

So  shone  upon  his  soul  like  dawning  skies 

The  electric  splendor  of  Olympian  eyes. 

Somehow  I  seem  to  know  these  forms  of  light. 

Somewhere  they  have  lit  my  pathway,  day  and  night. 

If  through  this  veil  of  dreams  I  could  but  hear 


THE   THREE  MUSES.  25 

Their  voices,  my  bewildered  sense  would  clear. 

And  yet,  alas  !  I  cannot  give  to  each, 

AYliile  thus  to  me  their  wooing  arms  they  reach, 

The  pledge  of  homage  and  fidelity, 

The  golden  apple  Nature  gave  to  me." 

Then  one  of  them  drew  near.     She  held  a  lyre, 

And  with  low  strains  the  enchanted  silence  broke. 

Her  mystic  tones  diffused  a  subtle  fire, 

And  in  his  soul  sweet  harmonies  awoke. 

Then  in  his  hands  she  placed  a  golden  lute, 

And  bade  him  touch  its  sympathetic  chords. 

No  longer  now  he  stood  abashed  and  mute ; 

But  sang  a  prelude  soft  in  simple  Avords,  — 

A  lay  of  love  and  longing,  —  till  his  song 

Grew  deeper,  richer,  blending  with  the  strings ; 

Then  soaring  as  on  swift  expanded  wings, 

With  gathered  strength  it  ran  through  varying  moods, 

And  echoed  from  the  rocks  and  ran";  around  the  woods. 


- 


Then  said  the  muse,  "  'T  is  thus  that  I  will  dower 
The  soul  that  feels  my  all-pervading  power. 
This  nest  of  winged  harmonies  shall  give 
Responses  to  each  mood  that  he  hath  known, 
And  all  the  subtler  shades  of  fueliim-  live 


26  THE   THREE   MUSES. 

Perfected  life,  when  wed  to  chord  and  tone. 
Arid  thou  shalt  know  how  tone  embodies  love, 
As  speech  embodies  thought,  and  haply  reach 
The  large,  creative  power  of  those  who  move 
The  heart  by  music,  superseding  speech. 
And  thus  would  I  enroll  thee  in  the  bands 
Who  dedicated  youth  and  age  to  me 
In  costly  strains  that  speak  to  all  the  lands 
The  language  of  the  gods.     Look  np  and  see  !  " 

The  youth  looked  up,  and  on  the  mountain  height 
He  saw  a  group  of  forms  enwreathed  with  light ; 
While  floated  down  such  strains  as  never  ear 
Had  dreamed  of  in  our  dim,  discordant  sphere. 

Filled  with  the  rapturous  symphony 

That  from  that  orchestra  divine 

Came  flowing  like  a  spiritual  wine 

Into  his  soul,  the  youth  in  ecstasy, 

As  when  a  flower  is  bowed  with  morning  dews, 

Bent  low  before  the  muse. 

"  Spirit  of  Harmony  divine,"  he  said, 
"  Ah,  worshipped  from  my  boyhood's  early  hour ! 
How  oft,  how  long  my  footsteps  have  been  led 
Apart  from  men,  by  thy  mysterious  power ! 


THE  THREE  MUSES.  27 

How  oft  the  deep  enchanted  waves  of  tone 
Have  lured  me  with  a  rapture  all  too  sweet ! 
Thine  were  those  tides,  O  fairest,  thine  alone, 
That  from  the  dull  shore  swept  my  willing  feet. 
Though  my  untutored  hands  but  feebly  ring 
The  imperfect  chords,  the  themes  I  may  not  sing, 
Yet  fain  would  I  thy  humble  votary  be, 
And  find  my  muse,  my  guiding  star,  in  thee  !  " 

But  now  a  touch,  as  't  were  some  earthly  maiden, 

Dissolved  the  trance  with  which  his  soul  was  laden. 

Before  him  stood  the  second  of  the  three  ; 

And  on  his  ear  these  accents  rang  in  free 

And  healthy  measure,  like  the  morning  air. 

"  Dream  not,"  she  said,  "  these  vague,  seductive  dreams. 

I  give  thee  choice  of  forms  and  colors  rare,  — 

Fair  images  of  skies,  of  trees,  of  streams  ; 

All  shapes  of  beauty  and  all  forms  of  power ; 

The  themes  that  through  the  past  and  present  shine ; 

The  varying  lights  that  flash  from  hour  to  hour ;  — 

Life,  Nature,  Spirit.     Be  the  effort  thine  ; 

The  out-world  wooes  thee.     Give  thy  utmost  heart 

To  enrich  the  ever-growing  realm  of  Art. 

Be  this  thy  love,  thy  toil,  thy  high  ambition, 

To  tread  the  path  of  Raphael,  Claude,  and  Titian. 


28  THE   THREE   MUSES. 

Here  choose  thy  brothers,  who  in  robes  of  light 
Throng  the  green  shades  beneath  yon  woody  height !  " 

He  looked,  and  saw  a  train  as  bright  as  those 

Who  just  had  vanished,  grouped  in  grand  repose  : 

Great,  earnest  brows,  and  loving,  piercing  eyes 

Which  saw  the  unveiled  divinity  that  lies 

In  forms  and  faces  and  in  trees  and  skies. 

And  as  they  passed,  woods,  rocks,  and  mountains  took 

A  richer  light  and  color.     Then  the  brook 

More  silvery  ran,  the  sky  shone  deeper  blue, 

The  clouds  were  tinted  with  an  opal  hue. 

The  landscape  glowed  as  if  it  gave  its  heart 

To  those  who  loved  it  through  the  soul  of  art. 

"  Go  forth,"  the  goddess  said.     "  The  earth  is  fair. 

Where  beauty  smiles,  the  artist's  work  is  there. 

What  nobler  task  than  this,  canst  thou  but  stay 

The  fleeting  splendors  of  a  single  day  !  " 

Thus  while  with  breezy  tones  she  spoke, 
The  youth  stood  rapt  and  listening. 
The  artist-fire,  long  smouldering,  woke  ; 
And  Avith  a  sudden  spring 
He  seized  his  paints  and  pencils  eagerly, 
And  bent  before  the  muse  a  lowly  knee. 


THE   THREE   MUSES.  29 

"  Alas !  and  was  I  blind  ?  "  he  said,  "  and  thou, 
The  charm  of  earth  and  air,  wast  here  e'en  now  ? 
Thou,  with  all  color  and  rare  forms  allied,  — 
Otie  with  all  nature,  —  thou  wast  by  my  side  ! 
And  could  I  slight  the  presence  that  illumes 
The  eye-beams  and  the  splendors  of  the  world,  — 
The  mists  of  dawn,  the  depths  of  forest  glooms, 
The  crimson  clouds  in  western  twilights  furled, 
The  river,  and  the  mountain,  and  the  face 
Of  man  and  maid,  and  childhood's  winning  grace  ? 
Have  I  not  known,  0  queen,  0  muse  of  art, 
Thy  service,  —  all  the  joyous  toil  of  those 
Who  give  the  flowering  of  their  hope  and  heart  — 
A  sweet  and  yet  so  oft  a  thorn-clad  rose  —   . 
To  thee,  as  kneeling  now  I  dare  to  touch 
Thy  garment's  hem  — 

E'en  then  he  felt  approach 
The  third  bright  form.     Taller  and  fairer  she 
Than  the  other  two.     A  qucenlier  majesty 
Upon  her  brow.     Around  her  all  the  air 
Seemed  touched  with  wandering  odors  sweet  and  rare, 
Wafted  from  unseen  nooks  of  eglantine. 
She  neither  smiled  nor  frowned.     She  made  no  sign, 
But  only  stood  before  him.     Every  grace 
Of  mingled,  earth  and  heaven  illumed  her  face 


30  THE   THREE   MUSES. 

And  shaped  her  form.     Upon  her  brow  a  star 

Flamed,  like  the  diamond  planet  of  the  dawn    . 

When  night's  cold  coronets  are  all  withdrawn 

And  scattered  through  her  solitudes  afar,  — 

Flamed  and  streamed  backward  through  her  golden  hair  ; 

And  all  the  freshness  of  the  summer  morn 

Breathed  from  her  presence.     Fairest  of  the  fair 

She  stood,  of  all  in  bright  Olympus  born. 

She  spoke.     But  hardly  had  she  moved  her  lips, 

When  in  a  gradual,  yet  not  dark  eclipse 

Her  sisters  faded.     Rather  did  it  seem 

Those  muses  three  had  mingled  into  one,  — 

One  form  to  whom  all  beauty  tribute  paid, 

One  bringer  of  an  overpowering  dream, 

One  central  light  all  other  lights  obeyed. 

And  all  that  he  had  dreamed  and  felt  and  known, 

And  all  that  he  could  hear,  imagine,  see, 
i  Flushed  in  the  Morning  Star  of  Poesy. 

She  was  a  presence  that  did  well  comprise 
!  The  soul  and  essence  of  all  other  art ; 

For  all  the  world  contains  of  sweetest,  lies 

Like  an  aroma  hoarded  in  her  heart. 

Now  all  seemed  music,  all  was  magic  hue, 

All  was  unfettered  joy  and  inspiration. 


THE   THREE   MUSES.  31 

Now  Beauty  bathed  the  universe  anew, 
And  kindled  thought,  and  tired  imagination. 
Then  rose  the  strong  necessity  to  write, 
As  once  to  sing,  to  paiiit  his  fondest  dream. 
Flooded  he  stood  as  in  the  auroral  light, 
Or  in  the  waves  of  some  great  flowing  stream  ; 
While  that  one  voice  again  and  yet  again 
Came,  earnest  as  a  cry  of  joy  or  pain. 
It  called  upon  him  as  a  trumpet  calls 
The  laggard  soldier  to  his  spear  and  shield. 
It  seemed  to  sweep  him  as  a  leaf  that  falls 
Whirls  in  the  autumn  blast  across  the  field. 
It  pressed  upon  him  as  the  truth  sublime 
Lay  on  the  prophets  of  the  olden  time,  — 
The  soul  within  the  soul,  the  hidden  life, 
The  fount  of  dreams,  the  vision  and  the  strife 
Of  thoughts  that  seized  on  every  other  force, 
And  turned  it  to  their  own  resistless  course. 

For  the  muse  spake  with  words  that  came 
Leaping  into  his  heart  like  flame  :  — 

"  Why  should  I  show  to  thee  here 
Shadows  of  poet  and  seer, 


32  THE  THREE   MUSES. 

Bards  of  the  olden  time, 

Singers  of  lofty  rhyme  ? 

Beauty  and  truth  are  the  same 

Now  as  of  old,  and  the  flame 

Of  the  morning  on  Homer's  brow 

Is  a  flame  of  the  morning  now. 

The  poets  sit  ever  apart, 

With  heaven  and  earth  in  their  heart,  — 

One  truth,  and  unnumbered  hints  ; 

One  light,  and  a  thousand  tints ; 

Ages  of  speech  and  of  tone, 

One  mystical  voice  alone. 

"  When  the  bard  utters  his  own, 
Rivals  and  peers  there  are  none. 
His  life  is  the  life  of  the  All. 

His  dreams  are  of  air  and  of  fire  ; 
To  the  depths  of  all  nature  they  call 

In  the  thirst  of  their  soaring  desire. 
And  ever  by  day  and  by  night 
The  arrows  of  thought's  delight, 
Feathered  with  musical  words, 

Barbed  with  the  adamant  truth, 
Fly  gentle  and  swift  as  the  winging  of  birds 

To  the  bosom  of  beauty  and  youth." 


THE   THREE   MUSES. 

And  still  she  spoke ;  and  still  he  listened  there, 
And  felt  the  ambrosial  breathing  fan  his  hair ; 
And  still  his  soul  rose  brimming  to  her  eyes, 
As  swells  the  sea  beneath  the  moonlit  skies. 

"  Foremost  of  seers  and  strong  creators  he 

Who  steeps  life,  nature,  heaven,  in  poesy. 

He  is  no  athlete  trained  to  win  a  prize 

In  an  arena  thronged  with  vulgar  eyes  ; 

No  juggler  with  his  tricks  of  tinselled  phrase, 

Cheap  bubbles  blown  to  catch  ephemeral  praise. 

No  lawless  passion  and  no  trivial  aim 

Shall  dim  his  vision  clear,  or  damp  his  flame. 

Strong  be  his  faith,  and  pure  as  it  is  strong, 

The  heart-throb  pulsing  through  the  poet's  song. 

'T  is  his  to  read  the  sunshine  and  the  storms, 

The  mystic  alphabet  of  natural  forms, 

The  deeper  lore  of  dreams  and  heart  and  brain, 

The  heights,  the  depths,  the  glory  and  the  pain. 

"  The  muse  who  leads  the  poet  guides  the  spheres. 
One  orbit  serves  for  both.     He  cannot  stoop 
To  palter  to  unsympathetic  ears. 
His  wings  must  never  droop. 
Buoyed  by  a  wind  that  blows  beyond  the  stars, 
Lit  by  a  sun  that  never  fades  or  sets, 


34  THE   THREE   MUSES. 

He  comes  to  proffer  through  fate's  prison-bars 

The  soul's  strong  amulets. 
To  press  the  wine  of  life  from  bitter  hours  ; 
To  open  doors  where  morning  never  streamed  ; 
To  find  in  common  fields  that  rarest  flowers 

Are  nearer  than  we  dreamed  ; 
To  intone  the  music  of  the  deepest  heart 
Through  all  the  changing  chords  of  joy  and  pain, — 
Where  canst  thou  track  a  loftier  flight  of  Art  ? 

Where  seek  diviner  gain  ?  " 

She  ceased,  yet  seemed  to  speak.     The  youth 
Still  heard  that  voice  of  love  and  truth ; 
And  all  his  soul  stood  over-flushed, 
Arid  every  clamorous  impulse  hushed. 

Then,  reverent,  before  her  face 

He  half  upraised  his  downcast  eyes, 

His  heart  all  glowing  in  the  light  and  grace 

That  matched  her  radiance  with  the  unsaddcncd  skies. 

"  Thou  Presence  dear  and  great !  "  he  cried ; 

"  Thou  wast  the  earliest  at  my  side. 

Thou  on  the  topmost  golden  stair  of  art 

With  thrilling  voice  dost  stand  and  call  to  me. 

O  fairest  goddess,  I  must  give  my  heart, 

My  spirit,  and  my  life  to  none  but  thee  ! " 


THE  SHADOWED  RIVER. 

DEDICATED    TO    THE    MEMORY    OF    A.    J.    DOWNING. 

IN  the  clear  September  moonlight 
Dark  the  eastern  mountains  rise, 

And  the  river  ealm  as  ever 
One  broad  lake  of  silver  lies. 

Like  a  frame,  the  leafy  garden 
Clasps  the  dreamy  picture  round, 

And  I  gaze  for  hours  upon  it, 
By  the  spell  of  beauty  bound. 

O'er  the  water's  burnished  mirror 
Darkly  glide  the  shadowed  ships ; 

So  the  glowing  past  is  shaded 

By  our  sorrowing  thoughts'  eclipse. 

Bright,  broad  River  !  flow  forever 
In  the  moonlight  to  the  sea ; 


36  THE   SHADOWED   RIVER. 

But  those  joyous  days  thou  never, 
Never  canst  bring  back  to  me. 

See,  the  frame  the  leafy  garden 
Arches  round  the  pictured  scene, 

Like  a  cypress  wreath  is  growing 
Dark,  —  too  dark  for  this,  I  ween. 

He  who  wreathed  the  lovely  landscape 
With  these  green  and  shady  bowers, 

Taken  from  us,  went  forever 

With  his  fleeting  garden  flowers. 

And  the  lawn  beneath  the  linden, 
And  the  shrubs  and  vines  so  green, 

And  the  fragrant  beds  of  roses, 
And  the  winding  paths  between, 

And  the  house  in  beauty  bowered, 
Bare  in  beauty  of  its  own, 

Ne'er  again  may  hear  the  music 
Of  those  days  forever  flown  ; 

Ne'er  again  shall  hear  the  laughter 

Of  the  joyous  company 
Whom  the  festal  days  of  summer 

Crowned  with  mirth  and  melody. 


THE   SHADOWED   RIVER. 

Silent  River,  sadly  flowing  ! 

Shadowed  sails  like  thoughts  of  pain 
Slowly  cross  thy  gleaming  silver, 

But  they  catch  the  light  again. 

Darkly  bend  the  mountains  o'er  thee, 
Dim  and  dusky  in  the  night, 

But  their  summits  woo  the  moonbeams, 
And  are  touched  with  heavenly  light, 

Life  is  rich,  and  nature  lavish  ; 

Providence  is  large  as  Fate  : 
Many  a  joy  they  hide  in  secret 

For  the  lone  and  desolate. 

After  sunset  clouds  of  crimson  ; 

After  twilight  comes  the  moon  ; 
After  moon-set  still  the  starlight ; 

Still  the  morning's  daily  boon. 

And  the  cloud  that  lowers  the  darkest 
Holds  the  blessing  of  the  rain  ; 

And  the  grief  that  stuns  the  deepest 
Hath  another  touch  than  pain. 

NEWBURGH  ox  THE  HUDSON,  September,  1852. 


NOVEMBER  TREES. 

JuET  poets  sing  of  their  leafy  trees 

When  the  tides  of  summer  fancies  swell 
And  rock  their  thoughts,  as  a  tropic  breeze 

Eocks  the  bee  in  a  lily's  bell ; 
But  give  me  a  harp  whose  ring  is  sharp, 

Tuned  for  November  melodies, 
That  I  may  roam  the  bleak  hills  alone 

And  sing  of  the  gray  and  leafless  trees. 

Their  boughs  are  bare  in  the  twilight  dark, 
Cold  and  bare  when  the  moon  is  high, 

Like  the  cordage  and  masts  of  a  stranded  bark 
That  warp  and  freeze  in  a  polar  sky. 

There  is  never  a  leaf  the  sky-born  thief 
Did  not  hurry  awav  ere  its  color  was  °'one. 

t-'  »/ 

But  the  boughs,  though  bare,  to  me  are  as  fair 
As  the  naked  forms  of  the  Parthenon. 


NOVEMBER  TREES.  3D 

Where  the  branches  part  in  the  dusky  wood 

The  golden  mist  of  the  sunset  streams  ; 
And  tracts  of  starlit  solitude 

Glimmer  at  night  on  a  world  of  dreams. 
The  wind  is  chill  on  the  rugged  hill, 

And  the  early  snow  is  gathering ; 
But  the  winter  is  naught,  for  the  boughs  arc  fraught 

With  the  flow  of  sap  and  the  hope  of  spring. 

O  patriots  whom  the  tyrant's  hate 

O'ershadows  like  the  winter  drear, 
While  like  the  patient  trees  ye  wait, 

Freedom,  the  nation's  spring,  is  near. 
Never  despair,  though  the  darkening  air 

Sweep  all  your  summer  leaves  away  ; 
The  Avind  may  rifle  your  branches  bare, 

Your  leaves  will  burst  anew  in  May  ! 

1852. 


THE  FLOWER  AND  THE  BEE. 

JLOVE  me  as  the  flower  loves  the  bee. 
Ask  no  monopoly  of  sympathy. 

I  must  flit  by, 

Nor  stay  to  heave  too  deep  a  sigh, 
Nor  dive  too  deep  into  thy  charms. 
Untwine  thy  prisoning  arms  ; 

Let  the  truth-garnering  bee 

Pass  ever  free ! 

Yield  all  the  tliymy  fragrance  I  can  draw 

From  out  thy  soul's  rich  sweetness.     Not  forever 
Can  lovers  sec  one  truth,  obey  one  law, 

Though  they  spend  long  endeavor. 
Give  me  thy  blossoming  heart ; 
I  can  but  take  thereof  that  part 
Which  grand  Economy 
Permitteth  me  to  see. 


THE   FLOWER   AND   THE   BEE.  41 

Friendship  and  love  may  last  in  name, 

As  lamps  outlive  their  flame  ; 
An  earthly  tie  may  bind  our  hands ; 

The  spirit  snaps  the  bands. 
If  Nature  made  us  different, 
Our  compliments  in  vain  are  spent ; 
But  if  alike,  ah,  then  I  rest  in  thee 
As  in  the  flower's  full  heart  the  sated  bee. 

1852. 


THE  CATAKACT  ISLE. 

I  WANDEKED  through  the  ancient  wood 

That  crowns  the  cataract  isle. 
I  heard  the  roaring  of  the  flood 

And  saw  its  wild,  fierce  smile. 

Through  tall  tree-tops  the  sunshine  flecked 
The  huge  trunks  and  the  ground, 

And  the  pomp  of  fullest  summer  decked 
The  island  all  around. 

And  winding  paths  led  all  along 
Where  friends  and  lovers  strayed, 

And  voices  rose  with  laugh  and  song 
From  sheltered  nooks  of  shade. 

Through  opening  forest  vistas  whirled 

The  rapids'  foamy  flash, 
As  they  boiled  along  and  plunged  and  swirled. 

And  neared  the  last  long  dash. 


THE   CATARACT   ISLE.  43 

I  crept  to  the  island's  outer  verge, 
Where  the  grand,  broad  river  fell,  — 

Fell  sheer  down  mid  foam  and  surge 
In  a  white  and  blinding  hell. 

The  steady  rainbow  gayly  shone 

Above  the  precipice, 
And  the  deep  low  tone  of  a  thunder  groan 

Kolled  up  from  the  drear  abyss. 

And  all  the  day  sprang  up  the  spray 

Where  the  broad  white  sheets  were  poured, 

And  fell  around  in  showery  play, 
Or  upward  curled  and  soared. 

And  all  the  night  those  sheets  of  white 
Gleamed  through  the  spectral  mist, 

When  o'er  the  isle  the  broad  moonlight 
The  wintry  foam-flakes  kissed. 

Mirrored  within  my  dreamy  thought, 

I  see  it,  feel  it  all,  — 
That  island  with  sweet  visions  fraught, 

That  awful  waterfall. 


44  THE   CATARACT   ISLE. 

With  simflecked  trees,  and  birds  and  flowers, 

The  Isle  of  Life  is  fair ; 
But  one  deep  voice  thrills  through  its  hours, 

One  spectral  form  is  there,  — 

A  power  no  mortal  can  resist, 

Boiling  forever  on,  — 
A  floating  cloud,  a  shadowy  mist, 

Eternal  undertone. 

And  through  the  sunny  vistas  gleam 

The  fate,  the  solemn  smile. 
Life  is  Niagara's  rushing  stream ; 

Its  dreams  —  that  peaceful  isle  ! 

September,  1853. 


IN  THE  GARDEN, 

WlTH  rose  and  orange  scents  this  place  was  laden ; 

The  summer  air  was  quivering  thick  with  birds. 
In  these  cool  garden  walks  I  met  the  maiden 

Whose  beauty  robs  her  praisers'  tongues  of  words. 

A  crimson  rose  was  in  her  hand.     She  held  it 
Close  to  my  lips,  —  in  truth,  a  flower  divine  ; 

But  I  looked  in  her  eyes  and  scarcely  smelled  it, 
But  took  the  flower  and  hand  in  both  of  mine. 

These  are  the  shades  where  arm  in  arm  for  hours 

We  walked,  —  brief  hours  of  throbbing  pain  and  bliss. 

Here  drank  love's  bitter-sweet,  deep  hid  in  flowers  ; 
Here  gave  and  took  our  last  despairing  kiss. 

And  where  is  she,  the  fair  light-footed  comer  ? 

I  pace  these  lonely  garden  walks  in  vain. 
O  long-lost  joy !  0  Rose  of  love  and  summer  ! 

That  day  ye  bloomed  will  never  come  again  ! 


IN  THE  PINE  WOODS. 


JJlM  distances  that  open  through  the  pines, 
Blue  misty  mountains  sleeping  in  the  west : 

Beneath  the  tall  tree-trunks  I  watch  your  lines 
Waving  beyond  the.  field's  unshadowed  breast. 

Amid  the  pine-tops  sighs  the  wandering  air, 
The  locust's  trill  swells  dying  on  the  breeze, 

The  cloudless  August  noon  to  me  doth  wear 
The  sadness  of  life's  distant  melodies. 

BetAveen  me  and  the  far  horizon  stream 
The  viewless  spirits  of  the  days  long  gone. 

I  see  the  landscape  as  from  out  a  dream ; 

I  hear  the  wind's  sigh  —  as  if  'twere  my  own. 


LUNA  THROUGH  A  LORGNETTE, 


I  TO-NIGHT  was  at  a  party 

Given  by  the  fair  Astarte. 

Star-like  eyes  danced  twinkling  round  me ; 

Cold  they  left  me,  as  they  found  me. 

One  bright  vision,  one  face  only, 

Made  me  happy  and  yet  lonely. 

It  was  hers  to  whom  is  given 

Eule  by  night,  —  the  queen  of  heaven. 

"  Ah,  how  fair  she  is  !"  I  muttered, 

Like  a  night-moth  as  I  fluttered 

Round  her  light,  but  dared  not  enter 

That  intensely  radiant  centre, 

Whence  she  filled  the  clouds  about  her, 

Whence  she  lit  the  very  outer 

Darkness,  and  the  ocean  hoary 

With  her  floods  of  golden  glory. 

Some  one,  then,  as  I  stood  gazing, 
Filled  too  full  of  her  for  praising, 


48  LUNA  THROUGH   A   LORGNETTE. 

Of  the  old  time  vaguely  dreaming, 
When  she  took  a  mortal  seeming ; 
When  the  shepherd  sprang  to  meet  her, 
And  he  felt  a  kiss,  ah,  sweeter 
Than  e'er  lips  of  mortal  maiden 
Gave  her  lover  passion-laden,  — 
Some  one  with  a  sneer  ascetic 
Broke  in  on  my  dream  poetic. 
"  I  see  more,"  he  said,  "than  you,  sir; 
Would  you  like  a  nearer  view,  sir  ?  " 
And  with  that,  politely  handing 
A  lorgnette,  he  left  me  standing, 
In  her  face  directly  gazing ; 
And  I  saw  a  sight  amazing. 
Ah,  these  dreadful  magnifiers 
Kill  the  life  of  our  desires. 
Shall  I  tell  you  what  I  saw  then  ? 
All  of  you  around  me  draw  then. 

Can  she  be  as  once  I  thought  her,  — 
Phoebus'  sister,  Jove's  fair  daughter? 
Whom  the  night-flowers  turn  to  gaze  on, 
Whom  the  sleeping  streams  emblazon : 
Lover's  planet,  lamp  of  heaven, 
Goddess  to  whom  power  is  given 


LUNA   THROUGH   A   LORGNETTE.  4(J 

Over  tides  and  rolling  oceans, 
Over  all  the  heart's  emotions  ! 

Ah,  farewell,  my  boyish  fancies ! 

Farewell,  all  my  young  romances  ! 

As  that  orb  that  shone  Elysian 

On  my  young  poetic  vision, 

As  that  crescent  boat  which  lightly 

Tilted  o'er  the  cloud-rack  nightly, 

I  again  can  see  her  never, 

Though  I  use  my  best  endeavor. 

On  me  once  her  charms  she  sprinkled, 

Now  her  face  is  old  and  wrinkled. 

As  Diana  chaste  and  tender, 

Can  I  now  as  once  defend  her  ? 

She  is  full  of  histories  olden 

Wrapped  up  in  her  bosom  golden. 

Sorceress  of  strange  beguiling, 

Thousands  perished  by  her  smiling,  — 

Girls  kept  waking,  old  men  saddened, 

Lovers  lost,  and  poets  maddened. 

Now  the  well-armed  eye  of  Science 

Bids  her  magic  spells  defiance ; 

Moonstruck  brains  by  moonlight  haunted 

Telescopes  have  disenchanted. 


50  LUNA   THROUGH   A  LORGNETTE. 

Talk  not  of  the  brow  of  Dian. 
Gentle  bards,  you  may  rely  on 
What  I  've  seen  to-night ;  't  is  clearly 
Known  the  moon  's  constructed  qucerly, 
Pull  of  wrinkles,  warts,  and  freckles, 
Gilded  cracks  and  spots  and  speckles ; 
As  if  in  wandering  through  the  void, 
Her  face  were  marked  with  varioloid. 
Then  her  cheeks  and  eyes  so  hollow, 
That  I  'in  sure  the  bright  Apollo 
Ne'er  would  know  her  for  his  sister, 
Nor  Endymion  have  kissed  her. 

Nay,  good  Moon,  I  'in  loath  to  slander 
Thy  mysterious  beauty  yonder ; 
Bather  as  I  gaze  upon  thce, 
Truer  lines  be  written  on  thee. 
Take  away  your  telescope,  sir  ; 
Let  me  still,  as  ever,  hope,  sir. 
Ill  does  it  become  a  lover 
All  the  bare  truth  to  discover. 
Keach  me,  friends,  a  brimming  beaker ; 
Wine  shall  make  my  vision  weaker. 
Songs  of  olden  days  come  sing  me, 
Charms  that  cheat  the  senses  bring  me. 


LUNA  THROUGH   A   LORGNETTE.  51 

Nay,  I  have  a  sweet  suspicion 

It  was  a  distorted  vision. 

What  I  saw  that  looked  so  quecrly, 

Was  exaggeration  merely. 

Things  remote  by  law  of  nature 

Should  be  kept  within  their  stature. 

Telescopic  eyes  are  clever 

Things  to  own ;  but  use  them  never ! 

So,  fair  Moon,  again  I  'in  dreaming 
On  thy  face  above  me  beaming ! 
Orb  of  beauty,  mid  star-clusters 
Hanging  heavy  with  thy  lustres  ; 
Saturated  with  the  sun-fire, 
Which  thou  turnest  into  moon-fire, 
Baying  from  thy  fields  and  mountains, 
Silvering  earth's  rejoicing  fountains, 
Crystal  vase  with  light  o'er-brimming ; 
Eye  of  night  with  love-tears  swimming ; 
Heaven's  left  heart,  in  music  beating 
Through  the  cloud  robes  round  thee  fleeting ; 
Cheering  all  within,  without  thee, 
Even  the  wind-chased  mists  about  thee,  — • 
Though  I  mocked  thy  face  mysterious, 
I  have  grown  more  sage  and  serious. 


LUNA   THROUGH   A  LORGNETTE. 

Cold  astronomers  may  show  tliee 

Rough  in  feature,  fair  I  know  tliee ! 

At  thy  critics  thou  art  laughing, 

Spite  of  all  their  photographing, 

In  their  rig-id  prose  detailing 

Every  spot  and  every  failing. 

I  will  be  thy  enamored  poet, 

Though  my  friends  may  smile  to  know  it 

For  my  dreams  do  scorn  alliance 

With  these  prying  thieves  of  science. 


IN  THE  PALAIS  ROYAL  GARDEN. 

IN  the  Palais  Royal  Garden  I  stood  listening  to-day, 
Just  at  sunset,  in  the  crowd  that  flaunted  up  and  down 

so  gay 
As  the  strains  of  "  Casta  Diva  "  rose  and  fell  and  died 

away. 

Lonely  in  the  crowd  of  French  I  stood  and  listened  to 

the  strain, 
And  the  breath  of  happier  hours  came  blowing  from  the 

past  again ; 
But  the  music  brought  a  pleasure  that  was  near  akin  to 

pain. 

Italy,  dear  Italy,  came  back,  with  all  her  orange  flowers, 
With  her  sapphire  skies  and  ocean,  with  her  shrines  and 

crumbling  towers, 
And  her  dark-eyed  women  sitting  under  their  vine-shaded 

bowers. 


54      IN  THE  PALAIS  ROYAL  GARDEN. 

And  the  rich  and  brilliant  concerts  in  my  own  far  distant 

land, 
Where  the  world-renowned  singers,  circled  by  the  orchestral 

band 
Poured  their  music  on  the  crowds  like  costly  wine  upon 

the  sand. 

All  the  aroma  of  the  best  and  brightest  hours  of  love  and 

song 
Mingled  with  the  yearning  music,  floated  to  me  o'er  the 

throng. 
But  it  died  as  died  the  sunset.     Ah,  it  could  not  linger 

long ! 

Through  the  streets  the  carriages  are  rolling  with  a  heavy 

jar, 
Feebly  o'er  the  staring  gas-lamps  glimmers  here  and  there 

a  star. 
Night  looks  down  through  narrow  spaces ;  men  are  near, 

the  skies  are  far. 

Far  too  are  my  friends,  the  cherished,  —  north  and  south 

and  o'er  the  sea. 

And  to-night  I  pant  for  music  and  for  life  that  cannot  be, 
For  the  foreign  city's  crowd  is  naught  but  solitude  to  me. 

PARIS,  August,  1854. 


CORNUCOPIA. 


TlIERE  's  a  lodger  lives  on  the  first  floor ; 

(My  lodgings  are  up  in  the  garret ;) 
At  night  and  at  morn  he  taketh  a  horn, 

And  calleth  his  neighbors  to  share  it,— 
A  horn  so  long  and  a  horn  so  strong, 

I  wonder  how  they  can  bear  it. 

I  don't  mean  to  say  that  he  drinks,  — 

I  might  be  indicted  for  scandal. 
But  every  one  knows  it,  he  night  and  day  blows  it, 

(I  wish  he  'd  blow  out  like  a  candle !) 
His  horn  is  so  long,  and  he  blows  it  so  strong, 

lie  would  make  Handel  fly  off  the  handle. 

By  taking  a  horn  I  don't  hint 

That  he  swigs  either  rum,  gin,  or  whiskey. 


56  CORNUCOPIA. 

It 's  we,  I  am  thinking,  condemned  to  be  drinking 

His  strains  that  attempt  to  be  frisky, 
But  are  grievously  sad.     A  donkey,  I  add, 

Is  as  musical,  braying  in  Jus  key. 

It 's  a  puzzle  to  know  what  he  's  at. 

I  could  pity  him  if  it  were  madness. 
I  never  yet  knew  him  to  play  a  tune  through  ; 

And  it  gives  me  more  anger  than  sadness 
To  hear  his  horn  stutter  and  stammer  in  utter 

Confusion  of  musical  badness. 

At  his  wide-open  window  he  stands, 

Overlooking  his  bit  of  a  garden. 
One  can  see  the  great  ass  at  one  end  of  his  brass 

Blaring  out,  never  asking  your  pardon. 
Our  nerves  though  he  shatter,  to  him  it 's  no  matter, 

As  long  as  his  tympanums  harden. 

He  thinks,  I  've  no  doubt,  it  is  sweet,  — 

While  time,  tune,  and  breath  are  all  straying. 

The  little  house- sparrows  feel  all  through  their  marrows 
The  jar  and  the  fuss  of  his  playing;. 

The  windows  are  shaking,  the  babies  are  waking, 
The  very  dogs  howling  and  baying. 


CORNUCOPIA.  57 

One  note  out  of  twenty  he  hits  ; 

Blows  all  liis  pianos  like  fo rtcs. 
His  time  is  his  own.  He  goes  sounding  alone, 

A  sort  of  Columbus  or  Cortes, 
O.i  a  perilous  ocean,  without  any  notion 

Whereabouts  in  the  dim  deep  his  port  is. 

If  he  gets  to  his  haven  at  last, 

He  must  needs  be  a  desperate  swimmer. 
Ho  has  plenty  of  wind,  but  no  compass,  I  find ; 

And  being  a  veteran  trimmer, 
Ho  veers  and  he  tacks,  and  returns  on  his  tracks ; 

And  his  prospects  grow  dimmer  and  dimmer. 

Like  a  man  late  from  club,  he  has  lost 

His  key,  and  around  stumbles,  moping, 
Touching  this,  trying  that,  —  now  a  sharp,  now  a  flat,  — 

Till  he  strikes  on  the  note  he  is  hoping ; 
And  a  terrible  blare  at  the  end  of  his  air 

Shows  he  's  got  through  at  last  with  his  groping. 

There,  he  's  finished,  —  at  least  for  a  while ; 

He  is  tired,  or  come  to  his  senses ; 
And  out  of  his  horn  shakes  the  drops  that  were  borne 

By  the  winds  of  his  musical  frenzies. 


58  CORNUCOPIA. 

There  's  a  rest,  thank  our  stars  !  of  ninety-nine  bars, 
Ere  the  tempest  of  sound  recommences. 

When  all  the  bad  players  are  sent 

Where  all  the  false  notes  are  protested, 

I  'm  sure  that  Old  Nick  will  there  play  him  a  trick, 
When  his  bad  trump  and  he  are  arrested  ; 

And  down  in  the  regions  of  discord's  mad  legions 
His  head  with  two  French  horns  be  crested ! 

PARIS,  August,  1856. 


A  FRIEND, 


A  FRIEND  !  it  seems  a  simple  boon  to  crave, 

An  easy  tiling  to  have  ; 
Yet  our  world  dift'ers  somewhat  from  the  days 

Of  the  romancer's  lays. 
A  friend  ?  why,  all  are  friends  in  Christian  lands. 

We  smile  and  clasp  the  hands 
With  merry  fellows  o'er  cigars  and  wine ; 

We  breakfast,  walk,  and  dine 
With  social  men  and  women.     Yes,  we  are  friends ; 

And  there  the  music  ends  ! 
No  close  heart-heats,  —  a  cool,  sweet  ice-cream  feast ; 

Mild  thaws,  to  say  the  least ; 
The  faint  slant  smile  of  winter  afternoons  ; 

The  inconstant  moods  of  moons 
Sometimes  too  late,  sometimes  too  early  rising, 

But  for  a  night  sufficing ; 


60  A   FRIEND. 

Showing  a  half-face,  clouded,  shy,  and  null ; 

Once  in  a  month  at  full ; 
Lending  to-night  what  from  the  sun  they  borrow ; 

Quenched  in  his  light  to-morrow. 
If  thou  'rt  my  friend,  show  me  the  life  that  sleeps. 

Down  in  thy  spirit's  deeps  ; 
Give  all  thy  heart,  the  thought  within  thy  thought. 

Nay,  I  've  already  caught 
Its  meaning  in  thine  eyes,  thy  tones.     What  need 

Of  words  ?     Flowers  keep  their  seed. 
I  love  thee  ere  thou  tellest  me  "  I  love." 

We  both  are  raised  above 
The  ball-room  puppets  with  their  one-typed  faces, 

Chatting  stale  commonplaces, 
Or  aiming  to  express  a  lifeless  thought 

In  tinselled  phrase,  worth  naught ; 
Or,  at  the  best,  throwing  a  passing  spark 

Like  fireflies  in  the  dark,  — 
Not  the  continuous  lamplight  of  the  soul, 

Which,  though  the  seasons  roll 
Without,  on  tides  of  ever- varying  winds, 

The  watcher  never  finds 
nickering  in  draughts,  or  dim  for  lack  of  oil. 

There  is  a  clime,  a  soil 


A   FRIEND.  Gl 

Where  loves  spring  up  twin-stemmed  from  mere  chance 
seed 

Dropped  by  a  Avord,  a  deed. 
As  travellers  toiling  through  the  Alpine  snow 

See  Italy  below ; 
Down  glacier  slopes  and  craggy  cliff's  and  pines 

Descend  upon  the  vines, 
And  meet  the  welcoming  South  who  half-way  up 

Lifts  her  overbrimming  cup,  — 
So,  blest  is  he,  from  peaks  of  human  ice 

Lit  on  this  paradise  ; 
Who  mid  the  jar  of  tongues  hears  music  sweet ; 

Who  in  some  foreign  street 
Thronged  with  cold  eyes,  catches  a  hand,  a  glance 

That  deifies  his  chance,  — 
That  turns  the  dreary  city  to  a  home, 

The  blank  hotel  to  a  dome 
Of  splendor,  while  the  unsympathizing  crowd 

Seems  with  his  light  endowed. 
Many  there  be  who  call  themselves  our  friends ; 

Yet  ah  !  if  Heaven  but  sends 
One,  only  one,  so  mated  to  our  soul, 

To  make  our  half  a  whole, 
Rich  beyond  price  are  we.     The  millionriaire 

Without  such  boon  is  bare, 


62  A   FRIEND. 

Bare  to  the  skin,  —  a  gilded  tavern-sign 
Creaking  with  fitful  whine 

Beneath  chill  winds,  with  none  to  look  at  him 
Save  as  a  label  grim 

To  the  good  cheer  and  company  within 
His  comfortable  inn. 


THE  AUTUMN  EAIN. 


i. 

ItOOF  and  spire  and  darkened  vane 

Steep  and  soak  in  the  night-long  rain 

That  drips  through  the  barns  on  the  golden  grain 

And  a  drowning  mist  sweeps  over  the  plain, 

And  spatters  with  mud  the  rutted  lane 

And  the  dead  flower- stalks  that  bud  not  again. 

II. 

Wind-driven  drops  of  the  autumn  rain, 

Beat,  beat  on  the  window-pane  ! 

Beat,  beat,  sorrowful  rain  ! 

Drive  through  the  night  o'er  the  desolate  plain  ! 

Beat  and  sob  to  the  old  refrain, 

And  weep  for  the  years  that  come  not  again. 


THE   AUTUMN   RAIN. 

III. 

Years,  with  your  mingling  of  joy  and  of  pain,  — 
Joys  long  forgotten,  and  cares  that  remain  ; 
Hopes  lying  stranded  and  choked  in  the  drain 
Of  the  down-rushing  river  of  fate,  —  I  would  fain 
Sigh  with  the  night- wind  and  weep  with  the  rain, 
For  ye  come  not  again  !  —  ye  come  not  again  ! 

1855. 


SPIEITS  IN   PRISON. 


0  YE  who,  prisoned  in  these  festive  rooms, 
Lean  at  the  windows  for  a  breath  of  air, 

Staring  upon  the  darkness  that  o'erglooms 
The  heavens,  and  waiting  for  the  stars  to  bare 

Their  glittering  glories  veiled  all  night  in  cloud, — 
I  know  ye  scorn  the  gas-lights  and  the  feast. 

1  saw  you  leave  the  music  and  the  crowd, 
And  turn  unto  the  casements  opening  east. 

I  heard  you  sigh,  "  When  will  the  dawn's  dull  ashes 

Kindle  their  fires  behind  yon  fir-fringed  height  ? 
When  will  the  prophet  clouds  with  golden  flashes 

Unroll  their  mystic  scrolls  of  crimson  light  ?  " 
Fain  would  I  come  and  sit  beside  you  here, 

And,  silent,  press  your  hands,  and  with  you  lean 
Into  the  night-air,  mingling  hope  and  fear 

With  vain  regrets  for  days  that  might  have  been. 


66  SPIRITS   IN   PRISON. 

Arc  we  not  brothers  ?     In  the  throng  that  fills 

These  strange,  enchanted  rooms,  we  met.     One  look 
Told  that  we  knew  each  other.     Sudden  thrills, 

As  of  two  lovers  reading  the  same  book, 
Ban  through  our  hurried  grasp.     But  when  we  turned, 

The  scene  around  was  smitten  with  a  change ; 
The  lamps  with  lurid  torchlight  flared  and  burned  : 

And   through  the  wreaths   and  flowers  —  0  mockery 

strange  !  — 
The  prison  walls  with  ghastly  horror  frowned. 

Scarce  hidden  by  vine-leaves  and  clusters  thick, 
A  grim,  cold  iron  grating  closed  around. 

Then  from  our  silken  couches  leaping  quick, 
We  hurried  past  the  dancers  and  the  sights, 

Nor  heeded  the  entrancing  music  then, 
Nor  the  fair  women  scattering  soft  delights 

In  flower-like  flush  of  dress,  nor  paused  till  when, 
Leaning  against  our  prison-bars,  we  gazed 

Into  the  dark,  and  wondered  where  we  were. 
Speak  to  me,  brothers  !  for  ye  stand  amazed. 

I  come  —  your  secret  burden  here  to  share. 

I  know  not  this  mysterious  land  around, 

Nor  what  those  shapes  may  be  that  loom  obscure. 


SPIRITS    IN    PRISON.  67 

Odors  of  gardens  and  of  woods  profound 

Blow  in  from  out  the  darkness,  fresh  and  pure. 

Faint  sounds  of  friendly  voices  come  and  go, 
That  seem  to  lure  us  forth  into  the  air. 

But  whence  they  come  perchance  no  ear  may  know, 
And  where  they  go  perchance  no  foot  may  dare  I 

A  realm  of  shadowy  forms  out  yonder  lies ; 

Beauty  and  Power,  fair  dreams  pursued  by  Fate, 
Wheel  in  unceasing  vortex,  and  the  skies 

Flash  with  strange  lights  that  bear  no  name  or  date. 
Sweet  winds  are  breathing  that  just  fan  the  hair, 

And  fitful  gusts  that  howl  against  our  bars, 
And  harp -like  songs,  and  groans  of  wild  despair, 

And  angry  clouds  that  chase  the  trembling  stars. 
And  on  the  iron  grating  the  hot  cheek 

We  press,  and  forth  into  the  night  we  call, 
And  thrust  our  arms,  that,  manacled  and  weak, 

Clutch  but  the  empty  air,  arid  powerless  fall. 

And  yet,  O  brothers,  we  who  cannot  share 
This  life  of  lies,  this  stifling  day  in  night, 

Know  we  not  well  that  if  we  did  but  dare 

Break  from  our  cell,  and  trust  our  manhood's  might, 

When  once  our  feet  shoufd  venture  on  these  wilds, 
The  night  would  prove  a  still  sweet  solitude, 


68  SPIRITS   IN   PRISON. 

Not  dark  for  eyes  that,  earnest  as  a  child's, 

Strove  in  the  chaos  but  for  truth  and  good  ? 
And  O,  sweet  liberty  —  though  wizard  gleams 

And  elfin  shapes  should  frighten  or  allure  — 
To  find  the  pathway  of  our  hopes  and  dreams ; 

By  toil  to  sweeten  what  we  might  endure ; 
To  journey  on,  though  but  a  little  way, 

Towards  the  morning  and  the  fir-clad  heights ; 
To  follow  the  sweet  voices,  till  the  day 

Bloomed  in  its  flush  of  colors  and  of  lights ; 
To  look  back  on  the  valley  and  the  prison, 

These  windows  smouldering  still  with  midnight  fires, 
And  know  the  joy  and  triumph  to  have  risen 

Out  of  that  falsehood  into  new  desires  ! 
O  friends  !  it  may  be  hard  our  chains  to  burst, 

To  scale  the  ramparts,  pass  the  sentinels. 
Dark  is  the  night ;  but  we  are  not  the  first 

Who  break  from  the  enchanter's  evil  spells. 
Though  they  pursue  us  with  their  scofl's,  their  darts, 

Though  they  allure  us  with  their  siren  song, 
Trust  we  alone  the  Light  within  our  hearts. 

Forth  to  the  air !     Freedom  will  dawn  erelong  ! 

PARIS,  1858. 


BLONDEL, 


AT  the  castle's  outer  door 
Stood  Blondel  the  Troubadour. 
Up  the  marble  stairs  the  crowd, 
Pressing,  talked  and  laughed  aloud. 
Upward  with  the  throng  he  went ; 
With  a  heart  of  discontent 
Tuned  his  sullen  instrument, 
Tried  to  sing  of  mirth  and  jest 
As  the  knights  around  him  pressed  ; 
But  across  his  heart  a  pang 
Struck  him  wordless  ere  he  sang. 

Then  the  guests  and  vassals  roared, 
Sitting  round  the  oaken  board  : 
"  If  thou  canst  not  wake  our  mirth, 
Touch  some  softer  rhyme  of  earth. 
Sing  of  knights  in  ladies'  bowers, 
Twine  a  lay  of  love  and  flowers  !  " 


70  BLONDEL. 

"  Can  I  sing  of  love  ?  "  he  said, 
And  a  moment  bowed  Iris  head ; 
Then  looked  upward,  out  of  space, 
With  a  strange  light  in  his  face. 

Said  Blondel  the  Troubadour, 
"  When  I  hear  the  battle  roar, 
And  the  trumpet  tones  of  war, 
Can  I  tinkle  my  guitar  ?  " 

"But  the  war  is  o'er,"  said  all; 
"  Silent  now  the  bugle's  call, 
Love  should  be  the  warrior's  dream, 
Love  alone  the  minstrel's  theme. 
Sing  us  Rose-Leaves  on  a  Stream." 

Said  Blondel :  "  Not  rose-leaves  now ; 
Leafless  thorns  befit  the  brow. 
In  this  crowd  my  voice  is  weak, 
But  ye  force  me  now  to  speak. 
Know  ye  not  King  Kit-hard  groans 
Chained  'neath  Austria's  dungeon  stones  ? 
What  care  I  to  sing  of  aught 
Save  what  presses  on  my  thought  ? 
Over  laughter,  song,  and  shout 
From  these  windows  swelling  out, 


BLONDEL.  71 

Over  passion's  tender  words 
Intonating  through  the  chords, 
Kings  the  prisoned  monarch's  lay 
Through  and  through  me  night  and  day. 
And  the  only  strain  I  know 
Haunts  my  brain  where'er  I  go, 
Trumpet  tones  that  ring  and  ring 
Till  I  see  my  Richard  king. 

"  Gallants,  hear  my  song  of  love, 
Deeper  tones  than  courtiers  move. 
Hear  my  royal  captain's  sigh,  — • 
England,  Home,  and  Liberty  !  " 

Then  he  struck  his  lute  and  sang 
Till  the  shields  and  lances  rang  : 
How  for  Christ  and  Holy  Land 
Fought  the  Lion  Heart  and  Hand  ; 
How  the  craft  of  Leopold 
Trapped  him  in  a  castle  old ; 
How  one  balmy  morn  in  May, 
Singing  to  beguile  the  day 
In  his  tower,  the  minstrel  heard 
Every  note  and  every  word ; 
How  he  answered  back  the  song, 


BLONDEL. 

"  Let  thy  hope,  my  king,  be  strong ; 
We  will  bring  thee  help  erelong  !  " 

Still  he  sang,  "  Who  goes  with  me  ? 
Who  is  it  wills  King  Richard  free  ? 
He  who  bravely  toils  and  dares, 
Pain  and  danger  with  me  shares ; 
He  whose  heart  is  true  and  warm, 
Though  the  night  perplex  with  storm 
Forest,  plain,  and  dark  morass, 
Hanging  rock  and  mountain  pass, 
And  the  thunder  bursts  ablaze,  — 
He  is  the  lover  that  I  praise  !  " 

As  the  minstrel  left  the  hall, 
Silent,  sorrowing,  sat  they  all. 
Well  they  knew  his  banner  sign, 
The  Lion  Heart  of  Palestine. 
Like  a  flame  the  song  had  swept 
O'er  them.     Then  the  warriors  leapt 
Up  from  the  feast  with  one  accord, 
Pledged  around  their  knightly  word. 
From  the  old  castle's  windows  rang 
The  last  verse  the  minstrel  sang, 
Then  from  out  the  castle  door 
They  followed  the  brave  Troubadour. 


THE  OLD  DAYS  AND  THE  NEW, 


i. 
A  POET  came  singing  along  the  vale  : 

"  Ah,  well-a-day  for  the  dear  old  days  ! 
They  come  no  more  as  they  did  of  yore, 
By  the  flowing  River  of  Aise." 

He  piped  through  the  meadow,  he  sang  through  the  grove 

"Ah,  well-a-day  for  the  good  old  days ! 
They  have  all  gone  by,  and  I  sit  and  sigh 

By  the  flowing  River  of  Aise. 

"  Knights  and  ladies,  and  shields  and  swords,  — 

Ah,  well-a-day  for  the  grand  old  days  ! 
Castles  and  moats,  and  the  bright  steel  coats, 

By  the  flowing  River  of  Aise. 
4 


74  THE   OLD   DAYS   AND   THE   NEW. 

"  The  lances  are  shivered,  the  helmets  rust ; 

Ah,  well-a-day  for  the  stern  old  days ! 
And  the  clarion's  blast  has  rung  its  last 

By  the  flowing  Eiver  of  Aise. 

"  For  the  warriors  who  swept  to  glory  and  death,  — 
Ah,  well-a-day  for  the  "brave  old  days  !  — 

They  have  fought  and  have  gone,  and  I  sit  here  alone 
By  the  flowing  Eiver  of  Aise. 

"  The  queens  of  beauty  whose  smile  was  life,  — 
Ah,  well-a-day  for  the  rare  old  days  !  — 

With  love  and  despair  in  their  golden  hair, 
By  the  flowing  Eiver  of  Aise, 

"  They  have  flitted  away  from  hall  and  bower  ; 

Ah,  well-a-day  for  the  rich  old  days  ! 
Like  the  sun  they  shone,  like  the  sun  they  have  gone, 

By  the  flowing  Eiver  of  Aise. 

"  And  buried  beneath  the  pall  of  the  past,  — 
Ah,  well-a-day  for  the  proud  old  days  !  — 

Lie  valor  and  worth,  and  the  beauty  of  earth, 
By  the  flowing  Eiver  of  Aise. 


THE  OLD   DAYS   AND  THE   NEW.  /5 

"  And  I  sit  and  sigh  l)y  the  idle  stream ; 

Ah,  well-a-day  for  the  bright  old  days  !  — • 
For  naught  remains  for  the  poet's  strains 

But  the  flowing  River  of  Aisc." 

n. 

Then  a  voice  sang  out  from  the  oak  overhead  : 
"  Why  well-a-day  for  the  grand  old  days  ? 

The  world  is  the  same,  if  the  bard  has  an  aim, 
By  the  flowing  River  of  Aise. 

"  There  's  beauty  and  love,  and  truth  and  power. 

Cease  well-a-day  for  the  old,  old  days  ! 
The  humblest  home  is  worth  Greece  and  Rome, 

By  the  flowing  River  of  Aise. 

"  There  arc  themes  enough  for  the  poet's  strains. 

Leave  well-a-day  for  the  quaint  old  days  ! 
Take  thine  eyes  from  the  ground  ;  look  up  and  around, 

By  the  flowing  River  of  Aise. 

"To-day  is  as  grand  as  the  centuries  past; 

Leave  well-a-day  for  the  famed  old  days  ! 
There  are  wrongs  to  right,  there  are  battles  to  fight, 

By  the  flowing  River  of  Aise. 


76  -THE    OLD   DAYS   AND   THE   NEW. 

"  There  are  hearts  as  true  to  love,  to  strive  : 
No  well-a-day  for  the  dark  old  days  ! 

Go  put  into  type  the  age  that  is  ripe, 
By  the  flowing  River  of  Aise." 

Then  the  merry  poet  sang  down  the  vale, 
"  Farewell,  farewell  to  the  dead  old  days !  " 

By  day  and  by  night,  there  is  music  and  light 
By  the  flowing  River  of  Aise. 


WHY 


i. 

I  HE  old  and  melancholy  truth 
Still  haunts  the  hours  of  age  and  youth. 
The  world's  great  problem  on  our  dreams 
Falls  freezing  like  the  ice  on  streams. 
The  vision  sweet,  the  bitter  fact ; 
The  promise  large,  the  meagre  act ; 
The  glorious  hope,  the  sigh  of  pain,  — 
Like  wave  on  wave,  with  old  refrain 
Sound  on,  again  and  yet  again. 

0  wise  philosopher !  too  well 
Upon  our  ears  your  reasoning  fell ; 
Too  easily  the  doors  you  ope 
That  lead  into  our  boundless  hope. 
The  road  to  light  is  not  so  cheap  ; 
The  hills  are  rough,  the  vales  are  steep. 


78  AVI1Y? 

You  see  not  that  within  each  breast 
Is  rooted  deep  the  great  Unrest,  — 
The  god  within  a  prison  pent, 
That  may  not  yield  to  argument. 
Your  proofs  we  cannot  well  deny, 
Yet  clings  behind  the  unsolaced  Why. 
We  strain  our  vision  to  the  end ; 
We  trust  we  love  the  heavenly  Friend ; 
We  sun  our  thoughts  in  Being's  beam, 
And  Avake  to  find  our  faith  a  dream. 

Why  was  I  born,  and  where  was  I 
Before  this  living  mystery 
That  weds  the  body  to  the  soul  ? 
What  are  the  laws  by  whose  control 
I  live  and  feel  and  think  and  know  ? 
What  the  allegiance  that  I  owe 
To  tides  beyond  all  time  and  space  ? 
What  form  of  faith  must  I  embrace  ? 
Why  thwarted,  starved,  and  overborne 
By  fate,  —  an  exile,  driven  forlorn 
By  fitful  winds,  where  each  event 
Seems  but  the  whirl  of  accident  ? 
Why  feel  our  wings  so  incomplete, 
Or,  flying,  but  a  plumed  deceit, 


WHY?  70 

Ronowing  all  our  lives  to  us 
The  fable  old  of  Icarus  ? 

Tell  me  the  meaning  of  the  breath 
That  whispers  from  the  house  of  death, 
That  chills  thought's  metaphysic  strife, 
That  dims  the  dream  of  After-life. 
Why,  if  we  lived  not  ere  our  birth, 
Hope  for  a  state  beyond  this  earth  ? 
Tell  me  the  secret  of  the  hope 
That  gathers,  as  we  upwards  ope 
The  skylights  of  the  prisoned  soul 
Unto  the  perfect  and  the  whole. 
Yet  why  the  loveliest  things  of  earth 
Mock  in  their  death  their  glorious  birth. 
Why,  when  the  scarlet  sunset  floods 
The  west  beyond  the  hills  and  woods, 
Or  June  with  roses  crowds  my  porch, 
Or  northern  lights  with  crimson  torch 
Illume  the  snow  and  veil  the  stars 
With  streaming  bands  and  wavering  bars, 
Or  music's  sensuous,  soul-like  wine 
Intoxicates  with  trance  divine,  — 
Why  then  must  sadness  like  a  thief 
Steal  mv  aromas  of  belief, 


80 


And  like  a  cloud  that  shuts  the  day 
At  sunrise,  turn  my  gold  to  gray  ? 

Tell  me  why  instincts  meant  for  good 
Turn  to  a  madness  of  the  blood  ; 
And,  baffling  all  our  morals  nice, 
Nature  seems  nearly  one  with  vice. 
What  sin  and  misery  mean,  if  blent 
With  good  in  one  divine  intent. 
Why  from  such  source  must  evil  spring, 
And  finite  still  mean  suffering  ? 

Thus  ever  questioning  we  stand, 

As  though  upon  some  alien  land, 

And  grope  for  truth  beyond  our  reach, 

Through  foreign  modes  and  .unknown  speech. 

Oae  mystery  above,  below, 

Within,  o'erveiling  all  we  know. 

What  riddle  harder  to  unwind 

Than  man  himself  can  man  e'er  find  ? 

Wiser  than  prophet  and  than  sage 

Must  be  the  eye  that  reads  this  page,  — 

The  enigma  of  the  double  soul,  — 

This  angel-devil,  half  and  whole, 

Whose  eye  is  filled  with  wisdom's  light, 


81 


Whose  lips  are  breathing  lust  and  spite  ; 

The  dim  vaults  of  whose  heart  and  brain 

Heaven's  warmth,  hell's  heat  at  once  contain. 

The  isolated  text  is  he 

For  clashing  creeds  and  prophecy  ; 

The  sibyl-leaf  that  winds  have  whirled 

About  the  corners  of  the  world  ; 

A  scrap,  a  hint,  that  chance  has  swept 

Out  of  the  book  the  heavens  have  kept. 

How  can  we  know,  —  forlorn  we  cry,  — 

Our  origin,  our  destiny  ? 

What  need  to  strive,  —  we  ask,  —  so  fast 

The  web  of  fate  is  o'er  us  cast  ? 

Why,  if  the  authentic  seal  we  wear, 

Should  we  prove  aught  than  good  and  fair  ? 

Look  on  the  millions  born  to  blight  ; 
The  souls  that  pine  for  warmth  and  light  ; 
The  crushed  and  stifled  swarms  that  pack 
The  foul  streets  and  the  alleys  black,  — 
The  miserable  lives  that  crawi 
Outside  the  grim  partition  wall 
'Twixt  rich  and  poor,  'twixt  foul  and  fair, 
'Twixt  vaulting  hope  and  lame  despair. 
On  that  wall's  sunny  side,  within, 


82  WHY  ? 

Hang  ripening  fruits  and  tendrils  green, 
O'er  garden-beds  of  bloom  and  spice, 
And  perfume  as  of  paradise. 
There  happy  children  run  and  talk 
Along  the  shade-flecked  gravel-walk, 
Arid  lovers  sit  in  rosy  bowers, 
And  music  overflows  the  hours, 
And  wealth  and  health  and  mirth  and  books 
Make  pictures  in  Arcadian  nooks. 
But  on  that  wall's  grim  outer  stones 
The  fierce  north-wind  of  winter  groans  ; 
Through  blinding  dust,  o'er  bleak  highway, 
The  slant  sun's  melancholy  ray 
Sees  stagnant  pool  and  poisonous  weed, 
The  hearts  that  faint,  the  feet  that  bleed, 
The  grovelling  aim,  the  flagging  faith, 
The  starving  curse,  the  drowning  death  ! 

0  wise  philosopher  !  you  soothe 

Our  troubles  with  a  touch  too  smooth. 

Too  plausibly  your  reasonings  come. 

They  will  not  guide  me  to  my  home ; 

They  lead  me  on  a  little  way 

Through  meadows,  groves,  and  gardens  gay, 

Until  a  wall  shuts  out  my  day,  — 


WHY  ? 

A  screen  whose  top  is  hid  in  clouds, 

Whose  base  is  deep  on  dead  men's  shrouds. 

Could  I  dive  under  pain  and  death, 

Or  mount  and  breathe  the  whole  heaven's  breath, 

I  might  begin  to  comprehend 

How  the  Beginning  joins  the  End. 

Like  one  who  wanders  where  he  lists 

In  some  enchanted  land  of  mists, 

Mid  mighty  temples  to  explore 

Of  hieroglyphs  the  hidden  lore, 

Or  forms  of  demigods  to  trace 

Carved  on  the  crumbling  ruin's  face  :  — 

He  sees  the  sculptured  column  stand, 

With  bas-reliefs  wrought,  small  or  grand  ; 

In  spiral  bands  the  heroic  troops 

Circling  the  shaft  in  crowded  groups ; 

But,  gazing  up,  sees  not  at  all 

The  mist-enshrouded  capital, 

And  cornice,  frieze,  and  architrave 

Sleep  buried  in  one  cloudy  grave. 

We  agonize  in  doubt,  perplexed 

O'er  fate,  free-will,  and  Bible-text. 

In  vain.     The  spirit  finds  no  vent 

From  out  the  imprisoning  temperament. 


84  WHY  ? 

Philosophies  that  stalk  in  pride 

Seem  but  our  shadows  magnified  ; 

Windows  of  many-colored  giass 

Tinting  all  thoughts  that  through  us  pass ; 

And  Revelation  but  a  name 

For  the  intense  grand  tones  that  came 

To  a  few  saints  whose  ears  were  fine, 

In  old  and  distant  Palestine. 

Truth,  truth,  God's  truth  !  naught  else,  —  we  cry  ; 

For  somewhere  in  the  earth  and  sky 

The  master-mind  must  lurk,  whose  word 

Sounds  the  keynote  of  all  accord. 

Give  us  thyself,  0  godlike  Truth  ! 

Thy  blood-warm  veins,  thy  kiss  of  youth. 

Flit  not  in  many-colored  light ; 

Shine  clear,  as  to  the  All-seeing  Sight. 

II. 

Yet  why  should  we  forever  press  and  dent 
The  brain  with  ceaseless  blows  of  argument  ? 
Why  overstrain  the  object-wearied  sight, 
Nor  rest  content  with  passages  of  light  ? 
Perhaps  it  seems  that  we  are  backward  thrust 
From  God,  that,  toiling  upward  through  the  dust, 
Groping  our  blindfold  way  to  Truth  and  Him, 


WHY?  85 

Excess  of  glory  may  not  pain  or  dim 
The  eyes  that  must  be  daily  trained  to  see 
The  full-orbed  truths  that  type  the  Deity, 
Who  overcasts  his  splendors  to  ensnare 
His  children  in  the  good  and  true  and  fair. 

Say  blest  Illusion,  that  hoodwinks  our  eyes, 

And  veils  for  us  the  overpowering  skies, 

And  lights  a  fire  that  only  cheers  and  warms. 

God  weds  our  souls  to  undeveloped  forms, 

And  tempers  his  great  lights,  which,  too  intense 

For  untried  eyes,  might  blind,  or  craze  the  sense. 

O  burning  day-star !  could  the  Parsee  old 

Have  worshipped  thee,  save  that  with  fold  on  fold 

Of  space  and  air  the  intolerable  fire 

Were  fitted  to  the  limits  of  desire  ? 

O  sacred  boundaries  'twixt  unknown  and  known  ! 

O  wholesome  stringency  of  nature's  zone  ! 

Spirit  immersed  in  form,  that  form  may  know 

Its  source,  through  growth  and  spiritual  throe, 

And  work  together  with  the  all-circling  law 

That  knows  no  lapse,  no  accident,  no  flawr ! 

So,  step  by  step,  through  tortuous  ways  we  grope, 

Becalmed  by  faith,  blown  on  by  fitful  hope  ; 

The  vast  light-region  ne'er  entirely  hid, 


86  WHY  ? 

Still  shimmering  through  the  labyrinths  we  thrid  ; 

Still  glittering  on  the  angles  that  project 

Along-  our  cavern  windings,  and  protect 

Our  stumbling  steps,  nor  suffer  that  we  run 

Like  candle-blinded  moths  into  the  sun. 

The  Himalayan  heights  are  kindly  screened  ; 

Their  upward  sloping  bases  over-greened 

With  flowery  paths  and  arbors  here  and  there 

For  noontide  rest ;  and  vistas  opening  fair, 

Where  birds  are  carolling  through  boughs  and  vines, 

And  odors  of  the  aromatic  pines. 

Therefore  I  boAV  my  spirit  to  the  Power 
That  underflows  and  fills  my  little  hour. 
I  feel  the  eternal  symphony  afloat, 
In  which  I  am  a  breath,  a  passing  note. 
I  may  be  but  a  dull  and  jarring  nerve 
In  the  great  body,  yet  some  end  I  serve. 

Yea,  though  I  dream  and  question  still  the  dream 
Thus  floating  by  me  upon  Being's  stream, 
Some  end  I  serve.     Love  reigns.     I  cannot  lose 
The  Primal  Light,  though  thousand-fold  its  hues. 
)  I  can  believe  that  someAvhere  Truth  abides ; 
Not  in  the  ebb  and  flow  of  those  small  tides 


AVIIY?  87 

That  float  the  dogmas  of  our  saints  and  sects  ; 

Not  in  a  thousand  tainted  dialects, 

But  in  the  one  pure  language,  could  we  hear, 

That  fills  with  love  and  light  the  seraphs'  sphere. 

I  can  believe  there  is  a  Central  Good, 

That  burns  and  shines  o'er  temperament  and  mood  ; 

That  somewhere  God  will  melt  the  clouds  away, 

And  his  great  purpose  shine  as  shines  the  day. 

Then  may  we  know  why  now  we  could  not  know ; 

Why  the  great  Isis-curtain  drooped  so  low  ; 

AVhy  we  were  blindfold  on  a  path  of  light; 

Why  came  wild  gleams  and  voices  through  the  night ; 

Why  we  seemed  drifting,  storm-tost,  without  rest, 

And  were  but  rocking  on  a  Mother's  breast. 


THROUGH  TM^IflLDS  TO  ST,  PETER'S. 


1HERE  's  a  by-road  to  St.  Peter's.     First  you  swing 

across  the  Tiber 
In  a  ferry-boat  that  floats  you  in  a  minute  from  the 

crowd  : 
Then  through  high-hedged  lanes  you  saunter ;  then  by 

fields  and  sunny  pastures ; 

And  beyond  the  wondrous  dome  uprises  like  a  golden 
cloud. 

And  this  morning,  Easter   morning,  while   the   streets 

were  thronged  with  people, 
And  all  Rome  moved  toward  the  apostle's  temple  by 

the  usual  way, 
I  strolled  by  the  fields  and  hedges,  stopping  now  to  view 

the  landscape, 
Now  to  sketch  the  lazy  cattle  in  the  April  grass  that  lay. 


THROUGH   THE   FIELDS   TO   ST.   PETER'S.        89 

Galaxies    of    buttercups     and    daisies    ran    along    the 

meadows, 
Rosy  flushes  of  red   clover,  blossoming   shrubs  and 

sprouting  vines. 
Overhead  the  larks  were  singing,  heeding  not  the  bells 

a-ringing, 

Little  knew  they  of  the  Pasqua,  or  the  proud  St.  Peter's 
shrines. 

Contadini,  men  and  women,  in  their  very  best  apparel 
Trooping  one   behind  another,  chatted  all   along  the 

roads. 
Boys  were  pitching  quoits  and  coppers,  old  men  in  the 

sun  were  basking. 

In  the  festal  smile  of  Heaven  all  laid  aside  their  weary 
loads. 

Underneath  an  ancient  portal   soon  I  passed  into  the 

city ; 
Entered    San    Pietro's    Square,    now   thronged   with 

upward  crowding  forms, 
Past  the  Cardinals'   gilded  coaches,   and  the  gorgeous 

scarlet  lackeys, 

And  the  flashing  files  of  soldiers,  and  black  priests  in 
gloomy  swarms. 


90        THROUGH   THE   FIELDS   TO   ST,  PETER'S. 

All  were  moving  to  the  temple.     Push  aside  the  ponder 
ous  curtain  ; 
Lo !  the  glorious  heights  of  marble,  melting  in  the 

golden  dome, 
Where  the  grand  mosaic  pictures,  veiled   in  warm   and 

misty  softness, 

Swim  in  faith's  religious  trances,  high  above  all  heights 
of  Rome. 

Grand  as  Pergolesi  chantings,  lovely  as  a  dream  of  Titian, 
Tones  and  tints  and  chastened  splendors  wreathed  and 

grouped  in  sweet  accord  ; 
While  through  nave  and  transept  pealing,  soar  and  sink 

the  choral  voices, 

Telling  of  the  death  and  glorious  resurrection  of  the 
Lord. 

But,  ah,  fatal  degradation   for  this  temple   of  the   na 
tions  ! 
For  the  soul  is  never  lifted  by  the  accord  of  sights  and 

sound, 
But   yon   priest   in  gold  and  satin,  mumming  with  his 

ghostly  Latin, 

Drags  it  from  its  natural  nights,  and  trails  its  plumage 
on  the  ground. 


THROUGH    THE   FIELDS   TO   ST.   PETER'S.         91 

And  to-day  the  Pope  is  heading  his  whole  army  of  gay 

puppets, 
And  the  great  machinery  moving  round  us  with   an 

extra  sho\v  : 

Genuflections,  censers,  mitres,  mystic   motions,    candle- 
lighters, 

And  the  juggling  show  of  relics  to  the  crowd  that 
gapes  below  ; 

Till  at  last  they  show  the  Pontiff,  draped  and  diademed 

and  tinselled, 
Under  canopy  and  fan-plumes  borne  along  in  splendor 

proud 

To  a  show-box  of  the  temple  overlooking  all  the  Piazza. 
There  he  gives  his  benediction  to  the  long-expectant 
crowd. 

Benediction !     while   this   people,    blighted,    cursed    by 

superstition, 
Steeped  in  ignorance  and  darkness,  taxed  and  starved, 

looks  up  and  begs 
For  a  little   light   and   freedom,   for   a   little   law  and 

justice, 

That  at  least  the  cup  so  bitter  they  may  drain  not  to 
the  dregs. 


92        THROUGH   THE   FIELDS    TO   ST.    PETER'S. 

Benediction !  while    old   Error   keeps   alive   a  nameless 

terror. 
Benediction  !  while  the  poison  at  each  pore  is  entering 

deep, 
And  the  sap  is  slowly  withered,  and  the  wormy  fruit  is 

gathered, 

And  a  vampire  sucks  the  life  out,  while  the  soul  is 
fanned  asleep ! 

Ah  !  this  splendor  gluts  the  senses,  while  the  spirit  pines 

and  dwindles. 
Mother  Church  is  but  a  dry-nurse,  singing  while  her 

infant  moans ; 

While  anon  a  cake  or  rattle  gives  a  little  half-oblivion, 
And   the  sweetness  and  the  glitter  mingle  with  her 
drowsy  tones. 

But  the  infant  moans  and  tosses  with  a  nameless  want 

and  anguish, 
While  with  coarse  unmeaning  bushings  louder  sings 

the  hireling  nurse ; 

Knows  no  better  in  her  dull  and  superannuated  blind 
ness, 

Tries  no  potion,  seeks  no  nurture,  but   consents   to 
worse  and  worse. 


THROUGH   THE   FIELDS   TO   ST.   PETER'S.        03 

If  sucli  be  thy  ultimation,   Church   of  infinite  preten 
sion,— 
If  within  thy  chosen  garden  flowers  and  fruits  like 

these  be  found, 
Ah,  give   me   the  book  of  nature,  open  wide  to  every 

creature, 

And    the    unconsecrated    thoughts    that    spring   like 
daisies  all  around. 

Send  me  to  the  woods  and  waters,  to  the  studio,  to  the 

market ; 
Give  me  simple  conversation,  books,  arts,  sports,  and 

friends  sincere. 
Let   no  priest  be  e'er  my  tutor,  on  my  brow  no  label 

written ; 

Coin  or  passport  to  salvation  rather  none  than  ask 
it  here. 

Give  me  air,  and  not  a  prison ;  love  for  heart,  and  light 

for  reason. 
Let  me  walk  no  slave  or  bigot, —  God's  untrammelled, 

fearless  child. 
Yield  me  rights  each  soul  is  born  to,  —  rights  not  given 

and  not  taken, 

Free  to  cardinals  and  princes,  and  Campagna  shepherds 
wild. 


94        THROUGH   THE   FIELDS   TO   ST.  PETER'S. 

Like  these  Boman  fountains  gushing  clear  and  sweet  in 

open  spaces, 
Where  the  poorest  beggar  stoops  to  drink,  and  none 

can  say  him  nay, 
Let  the  law,  the  truth,  be  common,  free  to  man  and  child 

and  woman,  — 

Living  waters  for  the  souls  that  now  in  sickness  waste 
away. 

Therefore  are  these  fields  far  sweeter  than  yon  temple  of 

St.  Peter. 
Through  this  grander  dome  of  azure  God  looks  down 

and  blesses  all. 
In  these  fields  the  birds  sing  clearer,  to  the  Eternal  Heart 

are  nearer, 

Than  the  proud  monastic  chants  that  yonder  on  my 
ears  did  fall. 

Never  smiled  Christ's  holy  vicar  on  the  heretic  and  sinner 
As  this  sun,  true  type  of  Godhead,  smiles  o'er  all  the 

peopled  land. 
Sweeter  smells  this  blowing  clover  than  the  perfume  of 

the  censer, 

And  the  touch  of  spring  is  kinder  than  the  pontiffs 
jewelled  hand. 

ROME,  Easter,  1859. 


MAKION   DALE, 


MARION  DALE,  I  remember  you  once 

In  the  days  when  you  blushed  like  a  rose  half  blown, 
Long  ere  that  wealthy  respectable  dunce 

Sponged  up  your  beautiful  name  in  his  own. 

I  remember  you,  Marion  Dale, 

So  artless  and  cordial,  so  modest  and  sweet ; 
You  did  not  walk  in  that  glittering  mail 

That  covers  you  now  from  your  head  to  your  feet. 

Well  I  remember  your  welcoming  smile 
When  Alice  and  Annie  and  Edward  and  I 

Walked  over  to  see  you,  — you  lived  but  a  mile 

From  my  uncle's  old  house  and  the  grove  that  stood 
nigh. 

I  was  no  lover  of  yours  (pray  excuse  me) ; 
You  and  I  differed  on  many  a  view. 


MARION  DALE. 

I  never  gave  you  a  chance  to  refuse  me, 

Already  I  loved  one  less  changeful  than  you. 

Still  it  was  ever  a  pride  and  a  pleasure 
Just  to  be  near  you,  the  rose  of  our  vale. 

Often  I  thought,  "  Who  will  own  such  a  treasure  ? 
Who  win  the  fresh  heart  of  our  Marion  Dale  ?  " 

I  wonder  now  if  you  ever  remember, 

Ever  sigh  over  fifteen  years  ago  ; 
Whether  your  June  is  all  turned  to  December ; 

Whether  your  hopes  are  rewarded,  or  no. 

Gone  are  those  winters  of  chats  and  of  dances, 
Gone  are  those  summers  of  picnics  and  rides ; 

Gone  the  aroma  of  life's  young  romances, 
Gone  the  swift  flow  of  our  passionate  tides. 

Marion  Dale,  no  longer  our  Marion, 

You  have  gone  your  way,  and  I  have  gone  mine. 
Lowly  I  've  labored,  while  fashion's  gay  clarion 

Sounded  your  name  through  the  waltz  and  the  Avine. 

Now,  when  I  meet  you,  your  smile  it  is  colder ; 

Statelier,  prouder,  your  features  have  grown  ; 
Bounder  each  white  and  magnificent  shoulder ; 

Barer  your  bosom  than  once,  I  must  own. 


MARION   DALE.  07 

Jewelled  and  satined,  your  tresses  gold-netted, 
Queenly  mid  flattering  voices  you  move ; 

Half  to  your  own  native  graces  indebted, 
Half  to  the  station  and  fortune  you  love. 

"  Marion  "  we  called  you.     My  wife  was  "  dear  Alice." 
I  was  plain  Phil.     We  were  intimate  all. 

Strange,  as  we  send  in  our  cards  at  your  palace, 
For  "  Mrs.  Prime  Goldbanks  of  Bubblemere  Hall." 

Six  golden  lackeys  illumine  the  doorway. 

Sure,  one  would  think,  by  the  glances  they  throw, 
We  had  slid  down  from  the  mountains  of  Norway, 

And  had  forgotten  to  shake  off  the  snow. 

They  will  permit  us  to  enter,  however ; 

Usher  us  into  her  splendid  saloon. 
There  we  sit  waiting  and  waiting  forever, 

As  one  would  watch  for  the  rise  of  the  moon. 

'T  is  n't,  we  know,  her  great  day  for  receiving ; 

Still  she  's  at  home,  and  a  little  unbends. 
While  she  is  dressing,  perhaps  she  is  weaving 

Some  speech  that  will  suit  her  "  American  friends." 

G 


98  MARION   DALE. 

Smiling  you  meet  us,  but  not  quite  sincerely. 

Low-voiced  you  greet  us,  but  this  is  the  ton. 
This,  we  must  feel  it,  is  courtesy  merely, 

Not  the  glad  welcome  of  days  that  are  gone. 

We  are  in  England,  —  the  land  where  they  freeze  one, 
When  they  've  a  mind  to,  with  fashion  and  form. 

Yet,  if  you  choose,  you  can  thoroughly  please  one. 
Currents  run  through  you,  still  youthful  and  warm. 

So  one  would  think  at  least,  seeing  you  moving 
Radiant  and  gay  at  the  Countess's  fete. 

Was  all  that  babble  so  very  improving  ? 

Where  was  the  charm,  that  you  lingered  so  late  ? 

Ah  !   well  enough,  as  you  dance  on  in  joyance  ; 

Still  well  enough,  at  your  dinners  and  calls. 
Fashion  and  riches  will  mask  much  annoyance. 

Moat  on,  fair  lady,  whatever  befalls. 

Yet,  Lady  Marion,  for  hours  and  for  hours 
You  are  alone  with  your  husband  and  lord. 

There  is  a  skeleton  hid  in  yon  flowers, 
There  is  a  spectre  at  bed  and  at  board. 


MARION   DALE.  99 

Needs  no  confessing  to  tell  there  is  acting 

Somewhere  about  you  a  tragedy  grim. 
All  your  bright  rays  have  a  sullen  refracting ; 

Everywhere  looms  up  the  image  of  him,  — 

Him  whom  you  love  not ;  —  there  is  no  concealing. 

How  could  you  love  him  apart  from  his  gold  ? 
Nothing  now  left  but  your  firefly  wheeling, 

Flashing  one  moment,  then  pallid  and  cold. 

Yet  you  've  accepted  the  life  that  he  offers ; 

Sunk  to  his  level,  not  raised  him  to  yours. 
All  your  fair  flowers  have  their  roots  in  his  coffers. 

Empty  the  gold-dust  —  and  then  what  endures  ? 

So  then  we  leave  you.     Your  world  is  not  ours. 

Alice  and  I  will  not  trouble  you  more. 
Not  like  your  spring  is  the  scent  of  these  flowers 

Down  the  broad  stairway.     Quick,  open  the  door  ! 

Here  in  the  free  air  we  '11  pray  for  you,  lady,  — 
You  who  are  changed  to  us,  gone  from  us,  lost. 

Soon  the  Atlantic  will  part  us,  already 

Parted  by  gulfs  that  can  never  be  crossed. 


VEILS. 


ONCE  we  called  each  other  friends. 

'T  was  no  formal  greeting 
When  we  clasped  each  other's  hands ; 

Soul  with  soul  came  meeting. 
Long  ago  I  loved  your  books, 

(They  first  drew  me  to  you) ; 
Loved  you  better  than  you  thought ; 

Ere  I  saw  you  knew  you. 
Other  friends  now  come  between, 

Other  love  outstrips  me. 
Can  my  light  be  then  so  dull 

That  they  all  eclipse  me  ? 
Often  have  I  longed  for  you ; 

Often  have  I  wondered 
Why  we  two,  whose  thoughts  were  one, 

Ever  should  be  sundered. 


VEILS.  101 

There  are  those  who  cling  fo  you  •  ; 

As  their  lamp  and  fuel, 
Or  who  wear  you  on  their  fr outjs  ,  ; 

Like  a  glittering  jewel ; 
Those  who  think  to  gild  their  rust 

With  your  fame's  reflection, 
Vainly  dreaming  that  they  stand 

In  your  best  affection  ; 
Happy  if  they  can  be  seen 

With  you  closely  talking, 
Proud,  if  arm  in  arm  with  you 

In  the  street,  they  're  walking. 
Though  they  press  so  near,  and  live 

In  your  smiles  and  glances, 
Never  are  they  so  near  as  one 

Linked  with  all  your  fancies,  — 
One  who  reads  the  Poet's  thought 

Through  his  pages  gleaming, 
Following  him  from  depth  to  depth 

In  his  subtlest  dreaming  ; 
And  who  feels  in  firm  accord 

Listener  and  singer,  — • 
Vibrating  beneath  your  touch  — 

Bell-chimes  to  the  ringer. 


102  VEILS. 


Yet  I  never  said  bow  much 
All  your  poems  moved  me. 

Love,  I  p-aid,  must  answer  love, 
For  I  thought  you  loved  me. 

Time  and  space  and  circumstance 

Barred  me  from  your  presence. 
Then  behind  your  veils  you  seemed 

Some  dim  phosphorescence. 
Half-transparent  window-shades 

Told  where  you  were  sitting, 
And  your  astral  lamp,  half  blurred, 

Threw  your  shadow  flitting 
Up  against  the  curtain-folds. 

"There,"  I  said,  " his  place  is." 
Soon  carne  other  silhouettes, 

But  all  stranger-faces. 
Said  I :  "He  is  feasting  there 

Friends  for  this  night  only. 
When  the  guests  are  gone,  he  '11  come 

Where  I  'm  waiting  lonely  ;  — 
Waiting,  leaning  at  the  door, 

While  his  intonations 
Rise  and  fall  for  other  ears. 

So  I  wait  with  patience. 


VEILS. 

For  that  voice  I  know  so  well, 

With  those  merry  fellows, 
Talks  for  them,  but  sings  for  me  : 

Can  I  then  be  jealous  ? 
When  the  festal  lights  are  out, 

And  heaven's  stars  are  shining, 
He  will  clasp  me  by  the  hand. 

Arm  in  arm  entwining, 
We  will  pace  his  garden-walks, 

Of  the  past  discoursing. 
All  his  heart  will  open,  free 

From  convention's  forcing. 
As  old  friends  who  feel  no  cloud 

Overcast  their  greeting, 
Such  shall  be  our  cordial  grasp, 

Such  our  joyous  meeting. 
Ah,  the  pleasant  dream  is  o'er ! 

Now  his  guests  are  going, 
He  but  stands  upon  the  step  ; 

And  a  wind  is  blowing 
Somewhat  chill  between  his  words, 

Which  to  me  are  sorrow. 
For  he  saith,  "  T  is  very  late  ; 
Can  you  come  to-morrow  ?  ' 


103 


104  VEILS. 


All,  to-morrow,  dreary  word  ! 

When  we  feel  "Now  only." 
And  the  bolt  slides  in  the  door, 

And  the  night  is  lonely. 
And  not  e'en  these  parting  guests 

Deign  a  conversation. 
Theirs  the  warm  adieu  of  love, 

Mine  its  desolation. 

"  Were  we  far  from  fashion's  forms, 

In  some  desert  gloomy, 
You  might  learn  to  know  me  then  ; 

For  you  never  knew  me  ! 
Time  and  space  will  now  build  up 

The  old  wall  between  us. 
Can  the  sculptor  warm  to  life 

His  cold  marble  Venus  ? 
Pate  has  given  one  world  to  you, 

And  to  me  another. 
We  can  never  cross  her  bars, 

Though  you  were  my  brother. 
On  your  hearth,  the  fires  will  glow, 

I  shall  see  the  ashes ; 
All  that  I  shall  know  of  you 

Will  be  distant  flashes. 


VEILS. 

I  will  read  your  books  again  ; 

They  at  least  will  lead  me 
Into  walks  where  we  may  meet, 

Though  you  do  not  need  me. 
I  will  fancy  you  the  same 

As  in  that  bright  weather 
Ere  this  cold  estrangement  came, 

You  and  I  together. 
You  and  I  will  speak  in  dreams 

Loves  not  unrequited, 
As  we  met  ten  years  ago,      • 

Happy  and  united." 

ROME,  1859. 


105 


THE  SPIEIT  OF  THE  AGE, 


A  WONDROUS  light  is  filling  the  air, 
And  rimming  the  clouds  of  the  old  despair  ; 
And  hopeful  eyes  look  up  to  see 
Truth's  mighty  electricity,  — 
Auroral  shimmerings  swift  and  bright, 
That  wave  and  flash  in  the  silent  night,  — 
Magnetic  billows  travelling  fast, 
And  flooding  all  the  spaces  vast 
From  dim  horizon  to  faithest  cope 
Of  heaven,  in  streams  of  gathering  hope. 
Silent  they  mount  and  spread  apace, 
And  the  watchers  see  old  Europe's  face 
Lit  with  expression  new  and  strange,  — 
The  prophecy  of  coining  change. 

Meantime,  while  thousands,  wrapt  in  dreams, 
Sleep  heedless  of  the  electric  gleams, 


THE   SPIRIT   OF   THE    AGE.  107 

Or  ply  their  wonted  work  and  strife, 
Or  plot  tlieir  pitiful  games  of  life  ; 
While  the  emperor  bows  in  his  formal  halls, 
And  the  clerk  whirls  on  at  the  masking  balls  ; 
While  the  lawyer  sits  at  his  dreary  files, 
And  the. banker  fingers  his  glittering  piles, 
And  the  priest  kneels  down  at  his  lighted  shrine, 
And  the  fop  flits  by  with  his  mistress  fine,  — 
The  diplomat  works  at  his  telegraph  wires : 
His  back  is  turned  to  the  heavenly  fires. 
Over  him  flows  the  magnetic  tide, 
And  the  candles  are  dimmed  by  the  glow  outside. 
Mysterious  forces  overawe, 
Absorb,  suspend  the  usual  law. 
The  needle  stood  northward  an  hour  ago  ; 
Now  it  veers  like  a  weathercock  to  and  fro. 
The  message  he  sends  flies  not  as  once ; 
The  unwilling  wires  yield  no  response. 
Those  iron  veins  that  pulsed  but  late 
From  a  tyrant's  will  to  a  people's  fate, 
Flowing  and  ebbing  with  feverish  strength, 
Are  seized  by  a  Power  whose  breadth  and  length, 
Whose  height  and  depth,  defy  all  gauge 
Save  the  great  spirit  of  the  age. 
The  mute  machine  is  moved  by  a  law 
5* 


108  THE    SPIRIT   OF   THE   AGE. 

That  knows  no  accident  or  flaw, 
And  the  iron  thrills  to  a  different  chime 
Than  that  which  rang  in  the  dead  old  time. 
For  Heaven  is  taking  the  matter  in  hand, 
And  baffling  the  tricks  of  the  tyrant  band. 
The  sky  above  and  the  earth  beneath 
Heave  with  a  supermundane  breath. 
Half-truths,  for  centuries  kept  and  prized, 
By  higher  truths  are  polarized. 
Like  gamesters  on  a  railroad  train, 
Careless  of  stoppage,  sun  or  rain, 
We  juggle,  plot,  combine,  arrange, 
And  are  swept  along  by  the  rapid  change. 
And  some  who  from  their  windows  mark 
The  unwonted  lights  that  flood  the  dark, 
Little  by  little,  in  slow  surprise 
Lift  into  space  their  sleepy  eyes ; 
Little  by  little  are  made  aware 
That  a  spirit  of  power  is  passing  there,  — 
!  That  a  spirit  is  passing,  strong  and  free,  — 
The  soul  of  the  nineteenth  century. 

PARIS,  February,  I860. 


ATALANTA. 


WE  read  in  classic  legends  old 
Of  one  who,  fair  and  overbold, 
Distanced  all  runners,  till  outrun  by  gold. 

Supple  in  limb,  and  fair  in  face, 

She  passed  the  swiftest  in  the  race, 

Till  on  one  luckless  day  she  lost  her  place. 

There  came  to  her  a  cunning  fellow, 

His  pockets  stuffed  with  apples  mellow, — 

Pure  gold  they  were,  of  California!!  yellow. 

Doffing  his  hat,  "  Fair  dame,"  said  he, 
"  They  say  thou  art  the  fastest  she 
That  ^ver  ran  a  rig.     Wilt  run  with  me  ? 

"  I  know  the  law  prescribed,"  he  said  : 

"  If  you  should  beat,  I  lose  my  head  ; 

But  if  you  are  beaten,  you  and  I  must  wed." 


110  AT  AL  ANT  A. 

Away  his  hat  he  swiftly  twirls. 
The  fleetest  of  all  swift-limbed  girls 
Tosses  her  head  with  all  its'  sunny  curls. 

Then,  One  —  two  —  three  !     Away  they  fly. 

Together  for  a  while  they  ply 

Their  agile  feet.     Then  soon  she  passes  by. 

But  will  she  win  ?     A  ball  of  gold 

Hippomenes  has  deftly  rolled 

Along  the  course.     She  stoops.    Her  apron's  fold 

Contains  the  prize.     Another  ball 

Of  dazzling  value  he  lets  fall, 

And  yet  a  third.     She  stops  to  gather  all. 

So  Atalanta  lost  her  race 

And  single  blessedness,  to  chase 

Three  rolling  lumps  of  metal,  bright  but  base. 

Now  list,  Columbia,  to  my  moral. 

Thou  runnest  well.     Don't  stop  to  quarrel 

About  thy  baser  wealth.     Prefer  a  laurel. 

The  fleetest  in  the  race  are  lost, 

If  in  their  gold  alone  they  boast. 

Be  wiser  thou,  and  count  the  entire  cost. 


ATALANTA.  Ill 

The  nations  feel  thee  great.     All  eyes 
Watch  thy  swift  motions  with  surprise, 
And  hail  thee  herald  of  unclouded  skies. 

Be  great  in  soul,  as  great  in  power ; 

Be  rich  in  minds,  Heaven's  richest  dower ; 

So  of  all  nations  thou  shalt  be  the  flower. 


AL  HASSAN'S  SECEET, 


I  OU  may  tell  me  that  the  priests  of  Egypt, 

Muttering  charms  and  raising  magic  terrors, 

Breathed  it  through  him  in  their  tombs  and  caverns, 

Stamped  it  on  him  with  the  seal  of  silence 

And  the  dread  of  excommunication. 

You  may  say  he  heard  it  on  the  river, 

In  the  Nile  froth  by  the  low  shore  lapping 

In  and  out  among  the  reeds  and  rushes ; 

In  the  moaning  of  the  lurid  sand-storm  ; 

In  a  noon-dream  mid  the  rustling  palm-tufts, 

Whispered  by  the  sun-scorched  leaves  above  him. 

I,  who  know  so  well  the  Sheik  Al  Hassan, 

I,  the  poet  Yefid,  can  assure  you 

Sheik  Al  Hassan  is  no  vision-seer ; 

Pears  no  priests,  but  laughs  at  all  their  juggles  ; 

In  the  desert  never  met  a  Geni ; 

Worships  in  the  mosque  no  power  but  Allah. 


M 

AL   HASSAN'S   SECRET.  113 

Yet  Al  Hassan  has  one  awful  secret, 
Known  to  him  alone  of  all  his  people,  — 
Some  strange  word  forbidden  to  be  uttered ; 
For,  if  spoken,  all  the  established  order 
Built  upon  the  solid  past  would  tremble, 
Pass,  perchance,  in  chaos  and  confusion, 
And  another  law  control  the  nations. 
What  this  potent  word  may  be  I  know  not. 
How  it  came  to  him  he  never  told  me. 
I  his  bosom  friend  have  never  heard  it ; 
In  my  deepest  thoughts  I  cannot  guess  it, 
Though  long  silent  days  we  ride  together. 

But  one  night  I  ever  shall  remember. 
After  toiling  through  the  powdery  desert, 
We  were  resting  in  the  grove  of  Kamah. 
Clear  as  noonday  shone  the  wondrous  moonlight. 
In  our  tent  we  slept,  but  woke  together. 
Overhead  one  feathery  palm-tree  rustled  ; 
On  the  white  tent  lay  its  shortened  shadow, 
And  the  shadow's  waving  fringes  trembled 
On  the  tent-roof,  darkening  all  one  corner. 
Grouped  around  the  weary  camels  slumbered, 
And  the  turbaned  slaves.     A  fountain  gurgled, 
Hid  in  darkness,  while  its  tiny  streamlet 

n 


114  AL   HASSAN'S   SECRET. 

Trickled  silvery  sparkles  o'er  the  pebbles. 
On  the  grass  lay  shadow-blots  fantastic, 
Mixed  with  moon-gold  rounded  into  circles. 

In  that  moonlight  there  we  woke  together, 
Suddenly,  as  if  a  voice  had  called  us  ; 
Broad  awake,  as  if  a  spirit  passed  us. 
Something  whispered  that  the  air  was  haunted 
With  a  presence  vaguely  brooding  o'er  us, 
Pressing  close,  until  the  nerves  all  tingled 
Tense  and  trembling,  as  a  wind-harp  shivers 
In  the  coming  breeze  of  autumn  evenings, 
Ere  the  first  wild  minor  chords  are  wakened. 
So  I  lay  and  stared  upon  the  whiteness 
Of  the  ghostly  tent,  and  on  the  shadows 
On  the  tent-floor  creeping  like  black  fingers ; 
Till  at  length  Al  Hassan  broke  the  silence. 

"  Could  I  tell  to  thee,  O  son  of  music, 

Could  I  tell  the  secret  of  my  bosom, 

Ah,  what  pain,  what  pain  would  here  be  softened  ! 

What  a  light  o'er  weary  days  would  brighten ! 

Could  I  only  shape  it  in  some  fashion, 

Temper  the  fierce  light  to  misty  softness, 


AL   HASSAN'S   SECRET.  115 

Dwarf  the  giant's  supermundane  stature, 

As  the  fisherman  enclosed  the  Geni 

In  the  box  he  carried  on  his  shoulders, 

It  would  flush  the  desert  of  my  bosom 

"With  a  sudden  burst  of  flowers  and  fountains." 

Was  I  waking  then,  or  was  I  dreaming, 

Or  enchanted  ?     "  Know,"  he  said,  "  O  Yefid, 

Good  and  evil  in  this  word  are  mingled. 

Like  the  angel  of  the  summer  lightning, 

Cloud-winged,  scowling  o'er  the  mountain  cedars, 

Darting  bolts  of  death,  yet  breathing  freshness  ; 

So  the  truth  —  if  truth  it  be  I  harbor 

In  my  burdened  breast  —  a  double  message 

On  its  wings  would  bear  unto  my  people. 

Some  must  take  the  good  and  some  the  evil 

Dropped  from  either  wing  of  this  strange  angel. 

"  Yet  could  I,  the  prophet's  weakest  servant, 

Seize  that  faith  which,  means  to  ends  subjecting, 

Seeing  in  the  madly  shattered  systems 

But  the  opening  of  the  eternal  order ;  — 

Faith  of  prophets  and  of  wonder-workers, 

In  whose  white  light  dazzling  and  o'erwhelming, 


116  AL  HASSAN'S   SECRET. 

Death  is  but  a  spot  we  hardly  notice, 
And  destruction  but  the  broom  that  sweeping  ' 
Clears  the  spaces  for  God's  mighty  building,  — 
Then  I  might  perhaps  forsake  my  desert ; 
Bear  my  smothered  torch  among  the  cities ; 
Stand  and  see  the  mighty  visitation, 
The  veiled  messenger  of  good  and  evil 
Shaking  dew  and  fire  from  either  pinion ; 
Watch  the  firebrand  kindling  in  their  houses 
Till  they  walked  by  light  of  conflagrations  ; 
Hear  the  trumpets  of  divine  destroyers 
Blaring  through  the  market  and  the  palace ;  — 
Had  I  only  faith  ;  —  and  yet  I  tremble, 
Scarce  even  daring  to  myself  to  whisper 
What  would  soon  rebound  in  shocks  of  thunder ; 
So  unlike  the  language  of  the  present, 
So  profane  perhaps,  so  wild,  that  madmen 
Might  essay  to  mumble  it,  half  dreaming, 
While  the  sane  ones  passed  them  with  a  shudder. 
I,  alas,  am  all  too  weak  and  faithless 
For  a  mission  of  so  huge  a  burden. 
I  am  not  a  sage  to  explain  its  meaning, 
Nor  a  saint  to  avouch  its  truth  unflinching, 
Eeady  for  the  fate  of  God's  great  martyrs. 
Though  a  voice  cries,  "  Speak,"  I  falter,  tremble, 


AL   HASSAN'S   SECRET.  117 

Turn  away,  and  carry  through  the  desert 

Strange,  dumb  pain  that  crowds  my  heart  to  bursting." 


So  Al  Hassan  from  his  couch  half  risen 

Toured  his  sad  speech,  while  the  palm-tree's  shadow 

Crept  upon  him,  and  the  tent  grew  darker. 


Then  I  said  :  "  Tell  me  alone  the  secret, 
Only  me,  the  strange  wild  word,  not  fearing ; 
So  thou  drawest  the  arrow  from  thy  bosom, 
While  I  heal  the  wound  with  love's  own  balsam. 
In  the  desert  here  no  traitor  listens  ; 
Let  us  share  the  mystery  and  the  sorrow." 
"  Never,  O  my  Yefid  !  "  was  his  answer. 
"  No ;  too  well  I  love  thee,  dearest  poet, 
With  a  heedless  hand  to  blight  our  friendship. 
Better  bear  alone  the*  fated  burden, 
Than  for  one  brief  moment's  consolation 
Turn  my  friend  into  my  bitter  foeman." 


Then  upon  his  couch  Al  Hassan  turned  him, 
Sighed  a  deep,  long  sigh,  and  watched  the  moonlight 
Pave  the  tent-floor  with  its  golden  patches. 


118  AL   HASSAN'S   SECRET. 

I  am  wondering  still,  and  dare  not  question 
Wliat  the  fatal  word  is.     Word  of  Heaven  — 
May  it  not  be  so  ?  —  if  such  the  ending 
In  the  birth-throes  of  a  new  creation. 
I  am  wondering  still,  but  cannot  guess  it ; 
While  Al  Hassan  rides  upon  his  camel 
Over  the  desert,  like  a  statue  haunted. 


MY  OLD  PALETTE. 


MANY  a  year  has  fled  away 

Since  this  old  palette  was  new, 
As  may  be  seen  by  the  spots  of  green 

And  yellow  and  red  and  blue. 

Many  a  picture  was  painted  from  this, 

"While  many  were  only  dreamed ; 
And  shadow  and  light  like  the  black  and  white 

Across  my  life  have  streamed. 

Accept,  my  friend,  this  plain  old  board 

All  plastered  and  imbrowned, 
Where  the  pleasure  and  strife  of  a  painter's  life 

Have  left  a  mosaic  ground. 

The  color  that  went  to  the  picture's  soul 

Has  left  but  its  body  behind ; 
Yet  strive  to  trace  on  its  cloudy  face 
Some  gleam  of  the  artist's  mind. 


120  MY   OLD   PALETTE. 

And  think  of  the  friend  upon  whose  thumb 
This  brown  old  tablet  hung, 

And  the  baffled  aim,  where  visions  came 
Unpainted  and  unsung. 

Mine  be  the  records  all  obscure 

Upon  the  surface  blent ; 
Be  yours  the  love  that  seeks  to  prove 

My  deed  by  my  intent. 

1866. 


THE  BOBOLINKS. 


WHEN  Nature  had  made  all  her  birds, 
With  no  more  cares  to  think  on, 

She  gave  a  rippling  laugh,  and  out 
There  flew  a  Bobolinkon. 

She  laughed  again  ;  out  flew  a  mate  : 

A  breeze  of  Eden  bore  them 
Across  the  fields  of  Paradise, 

The  sunrise  reddening  o'er  them. 

Incarnate  sport  and  holiday, 

They  flew  and  sang  forever ; 
Their  souls  through  June  were  all  in  tune, 

Their  wings  were  weary  never. 

Their  tribe,  still  drunk  with  air  and  light, 

And  perfume  of  the  meadow, 
Go  reeling  up  and  down  the  sky, 

In  sunshine  and  in  shadow. 
6 


THE   BOBOLINKS. 

One  springs  from  out  the  dew- wet  grass ; 

Another  follows  after ; 
The  morn  is  thrilling  with  their  songs 

And  peals  of  fairy  laughter. 

Prom  out  the  marshes  and  the  brook, 
They  set  the  tall  reeds  swinging, 

And  meet,  and  frolic  in  the  air, 
Half  prattling  and  half  singing. 

When  morning  winds  sweep  meadow-lands 

In  green  and  russet  billows, 
And  toss  the  lonely  elm-tree's  boughs, 

And  silver  all  the  willows, 

I  see  you  buffeting  the  breeze, 

Or  with  its  motion  swaying, 
Your  notes  half  drowned  against  the  wind, 

Or  down  the  current  playing. 

When  far  away  o'er  grassy  flats, 
Where  the  thick  wood  commences, 

The  white-sleeved  mowers  look  like  specks 
Beyond  the  zigzag  fences, 


THE   BOBOLINKS.  123 

And  noon  is  hot,  and  barn-roofs  gleam 

White  in  the  pale  blue  distance, 
I  hear  the  saury  minstrels  still 

In  chattering  persistence. 

When  Eve  her  domes  of  opal  fire 

Piles  round  the  blue  horizon, 
Or  thunder  rolls  from  bill  to  bill 

A  Kyrie  Eleison, 

Still  merriest  of  the  merry  birds, 

Your  sparkle  is  unfading ;  — 
Pied  harlequins  of  June,  —  no  end 

Of  song  and  masquerading. 

What  cadences  of  bubbling  mirth, 

Too  quick  for  bar  and  rhythm ! 
What  ecstasies,  too  full  to  keep 

Coherent  measure  with  them  ! 

O  could  I  share,  without  champagne 

Or  muscadel,  your  frolic, 
The  glad  delirium  of  your  joy, 

Your  fun  un-apostolic, 


124  THE   BOBOLINKS. 

Your  drunken  jargon  through  the  fields, 

Your  bobolinkish  gabble, 
Your  fine  Anacreontic  glee, 

Your  tipsy  reveller's  babble  ! 

Nay,  let  me  not  profane  such  joy 

"With  similes  of  folly  ; 
No  wine  of  earth  could  waken  songs 

So  delicately  jolly ! 

O  boundless  self-contentment,  voiced 
In  flying  air-born  bubbles  ! 

O  joy  that  mocks  our  sad  unrest, 

And  drowns  our  earth-born  troubles  ! 

Hope  springs  with  you  :  I  dread  no  more 
Despondency  and  dulness  ; 

For  Good  Supreme  can  never  fail, 
That  gives  such  perfect  fulness. 

The  life  that  floods  the  happy  fields 
With  song  and  light  and  color 

Will  shape  our  lives  to  richer  states, 
And  heap  our  measures  fuller. 

1866. 


CRETE. 


SpERANZA,  Speranza!  we  felt  through  the  night-time 
The  thrill  of  thy  voice  and  the  joy  of  thy  lyre  ; 

Heard  thee  far  off  singing  sweet  of  the  bright  time 
Prophets  foretold  in  their  large  heart's  desire. 

Strains  floated  by  in  the  sad  waning  moonlight, 
While  we  stood  calling  thy  name  from  afar. 

Come  to  thy  summer  bowers,  queen  of  high  noonlight, 
Pull-armed  and  splendid,  —  our  souls'  morning-star  ! 

Come  as  thou  earnest  when  Italy  panted 

And  leapt  to  her  feet,  o'er  her  dukes  and  her  kings. 

Come,  like  the  new  life  America  planted 

To  blossom  and  yield  through  her  ages  of  springs. 

Come  to  the  spirits  benighted,  unlettered, 
Unbarring  the  portals  of  science  and  love. 

Come  to  the  bodies  enslaved,  tasked  and  fettered  ; 
Build  up  the  freedom  no  tyrant  can  move. 


126  CRETE. 

0,  they  are  grappling  for  life,  —  just  for  breathing  ; 

Hoping  naught,  asking  naught,  —  only  to  stand ; 
Only  to  stand  with  their  arms  inter  wreathing, 

Brotherlike,  bound  to  their  own  fatherland. 

Faintly  they  hear  thee.     "  Speranza,  Speranza  !  " 
They  call  in  the  gloom.     Are  the  echoes  all  dead? 

Comes  there  no  voice  from  Mount  Ida  in  answer  ? 
Shines  there  no  star  in  the  pale  morning-red  ? 

Must  the  fierce  ranks  of  the  Ottoman  Nero 
Trample  their  life  out  with  barbarous  feet  ? 

Is  there  no  god,  no  Olympian  hero, 

Left  on  thy  mountains,  O  desolate  Crete  ? 

O  shame  on  the  nations  who  sent  the  Crusaders 
To  wrest  from  the  Turk  the  dead  stones  of  a  tomb, 

Yet  give  a  live  race  to  the  savage  invaders, 
And  lift  not  a  finger  to  lighten  its  gloom  ! 

And  shame  to  proud  France,  who  has  opened  with  greeting 
To  the  red-handed  tyrant  her  welcoming  doors  ; 

And  shame  to  old  England,  that  welcome  repeating, 
That  brings  the  crowned  butcher  a  guest  to  her  shores  ! 


CRETE.  127 

Ah,  well !  Heaven  wills  that  the  selfish  should  blunder. 

The  tyiunts  are  deaf,  but  the  people  know  well 
How  God  in  the  heavens  sits  holding  the  thunder 

That  strikes  to  its  centre  the  kingdom  of  hell. 

For  sooner  or  later  —  no  seer  can  foreknow  it  — 
Falls  the  swift  bolt,  and  the  thrones  are  ablaze. 

Time  yet  shall  re-echo  the  lay  of  the  poet, 
And  Greece  shall  live  over  her  happiest  days. 


J.  E.  L. 

ON  HIS  FIFTIETH  BIRTHDAY,  FEB.  22,  18C9. 

AT  fifty  years,  how  many  frosty  polls 

We  see,  whose  wintry  solitude  begins ; 
How  many  faces  hard  as  Chaldee  scrolls, 

Crowfeet  on  parchment  skins. 

At  fifty,  Time  has  picked  our  thickest  locks ; 

Polished  the  outer,  dulled  the  inner  head ; 
Fi' rlied  golden  dreams  from  many  a  knowledge-box, 

And  left  dry  facts  instead. 

Old  beaux,  not  Cupid's,  are  at  fifty  bent, 

With  stooping  shoulders  and  with  shambling  gait ; 

Their  sinew  strings  all  slack,  their  arrows  spent, 
Their  quivers  desolate. 

At  fifty,  scholars  cease  to  dream,  whose  youth 

Teemed  with  live  thoughts,  and  generous  hopes  of  man 

All  influx  fresh,  of  beauty  and  of  truth 
Shut  out  as  by  a  ban  : 


J.  R.  L. 

Cramped  by  a  creed  that  bolts  its  windows  down 
Against  the  century's  light  and  vital  air,  — 

Their  dogmas  shaped  by  some  provincial  town, 
Their  very  gains  a  snare ; 

Life's  best  aroma  gone,  when  years  should  claim 
The  boon  of  calmest  thought  and  widest  scope  : 

The  ring  without  the  gem  ;  a  faded  name  ; 
An  epitaph  on  hope. 

Not  so  the  friend  whose  buoyant  step  we  greet 
Rounding  his  hale  half-century  to-day, 

Freslf  as  when  earlier  splendors  lured  his  feet 
Along  the  enchanted  way, 

When  o'er  the  land  lulled  to  unhealthy  rest 
He  blew  his  trumpet  tones  or  trilled  his  song, 

Or  winged  his  earnest  arrow  with  a  jest 
Against  the  shield  of  wrong. 

The  truths  we  scorned  so  long  and  learned  so  late, 
Burnt  on  the  nation's  heart  by  war's  hot  fire, 

Long  since  he  taught.     We  know  now  how  to  rate 
His  grave  prophetic  lyre. 

G*  i 


130  j.  R.  L. 

Nor  less  his  gayer  moods,  when  wit  and  joke 
Ban  flashing  down  his  chords  in  humor  terse 

And  quaint,  the  talk  of  homely  Yankee  folk 
Woven  in  sparkling-  verse. 

His  sweet  enveloping  fun,  that  wrapped  the  pill 
Of  pungent  satire,  through  his  wise  discourse 

Runs  fresh  as  ever.     Drugs  that  heal,  not  kill, 
Are  his ;  we  know  their  source. 

He  from  the  first  wrought  through  his  varied  rhyme 
For  truth,  for  fatherland,  for  freedom's  cause, 

As  now,  through  riper  learning,  in  a  time         * 
Of  better  men  and  laws. 

Grander  than  ever  now  his  lyrics  ring ; 

His  humor  with  a  richer  flavor  fraught ; 
Sweeter  the  willows  through  his  idyls  sing; 

His  best  his  latest  thought. 

Here  under  his  ancestral  elms  we  meet 
In  fireside  talk ;  and  in  his  social  lights, 

Unmindful  how  the  poet's  winged  feet 
Have  trod  the  lonely  heights, 


J.  R.  L.  131 

Forget  the  midnight  lamp,  the  busy  brain, 

The  converse  with  the  treasures  of  his  shelves, 

And  how  the  unconscious  echo  of  his  strain 
Makes  music  in  ourselves. 

We  greet  him  here,  still  young'  in  wit  and  song, 
His  hair  unbleached,  his  eye  undimmed,  his  frame 

Robust ;  a  scholar  ripe,  a  teacher  strong, 

t 
A  bard  the  ages  claim. 

We  pledge  the  generous  heart,  the  exuberant  soul, 
No  grave  professor's  mask  can  change  or  hide. 

One  toast,  "  The  friend  we  love,"  shall  sum  the  whole, 
Were  all  that 's  said,  denied. 

For  he  needs  not  our  homage  or  our  praise  : 
He  lives  in  us  ;  and  all  who  know  his  worth. 

Flatter  him  not  with  formal  wreath  of  bays 
Grown  in  your  Cambridge  earth  ; 

But  crown  him  with  the  iris  of  his  soul, 

Caught  from  the  sunshine  of  his  life  and  name. 

Onr  reflex  of  his  light  the  aureole 
That  makes  our  love  his  fame. 


SEA  SHADOWS. 


r  old  the  poets  sang  of  thee,  O  Sea, 
And  peopled  thee  with  nymphs  and  tritons  quaint, 
And  fell  asleep  beside  thy  murmuring  Avaves, 
Or  rocking  on  thy  bosom,  and  forgot 
The  tiger  heart  that  crouched  and  laid  in  wait 
In  seeming  slumber.     Thy  great  glooms  I  sing,  — 
Shadows  of  chaos  and  wild  passion's  deeps, 
And  desolations  of  the  unmeasured  wastes. 

O  smooth,  false  friend,  who  lured  us  out  too  far 
Prom  land  and  home,  into  the  realm  of  storms,  — 
Of  storms  and  winter ;  or  in  tropic  gulfs 
Split  our  brave  ships  with  thunderbolts ;  or  washed 
In  drowning  death  a  hundred  beating  hearts 
With  one  sweep  of  thine  arm  ;  or  day  by  day 
Held  us  in  trances  of  long  sickening  calm, 
Booted  in  weary  plains  of  molten  glass, 


SEA   SHADOWS.  133 

Dumb  with  despair  and  famine  and  the  dread 
Of  p:-st  and  fiery  death,  with  none  to  help,  — 
The  burning  eye  of  heaven  that  rolled  and  glared 
At  noon,  an  eye  of  awful  maniac  light, 
Our  only  witness  in  the  unmeasured  leagues 
And  bottomless  abysses  !     Thou,  O  Sea, 
Hidest  in  thy  blue  bosom,  and  within 
Thy  gleaming  bars  of  sand  and  weed-clad  stones, 
All  haunting  fears  and  mysteries  of  death, 
All  auguries  of  chaos  and  despair. 

In  thee,  O  melancholy  mother  Sea, 

Lurk  all  the  vast  and  direful  ocean-shapes,  — 

The  black  leviathan,  the  ravening  shark, 

The  huge  sea-snake  by  mariners  beheld, 

The  krakens  and  chimeras  strong  as  death, 

With  elephantine  tentacles  and  jaws 

Of  slow  and  sure  destruction,  and  cold  eyes 

That  fathoms  down  stare  up  and  mark  their  prey. 

Thou  art  the  nurse  of  that  swift  cuttle-fish, 

Gigantic  fleshy  spider  of  grim  caves 

'Neath  cliifs  precipitous,  where  sucks  the  tide 

In  snaky  coils  of  light  and  dark  and  death, 

Leagues  off  from  land,  the  terror  of  a  dream  ! 

Thine  are  the  shadowy  waifs  of  shapeless  growths, 


134  SEA   SHADOWS. 

IL.lf  plant,  half  fish,  fantastic  jelly  forms 

]}y  moonlight  drifting'  past  old  ships  becalmed 

In  summer  nights,  while  near  the  Teneriffe 

The  loose  sails  flap  like  thunder  through  the  dreams 

Of  sleeping  sailors.     Thine  the  gleaming  teeth 

Of  white  reefs  snarling  as  the  ships  drive  down 

Through  blackening  skies.     And  thine  the  calmer  glooms 

Of  sad  sea-beaches  and  their  lapping  waves  ; 

The  rocks  half  buried  in  the  slippery  heaps 

Of  soaking  sea- weed,  when  the  tide  is  low  ; 

And,  wriggling  in  the  moonlight  and  the  sand, 

The  small  wet  monsters  crawling  in  and  out 

The  hollows  and  the  ooze  ;  the  skull-eyed  rocks 

With  hanging  tufts  of  yellow  ocean  hair 

Combed  by  the  salt  winds,  decked  with  dead  old  shells, 

Tricked  with  the  sad  waste  leavings  of  the  storm, 

And  washed  with  treacherous  kisses  of  the  surf 

That  froths  and  sighs  all  night  beneath  the  moon. 

To  tliee  I  come,  and  scorn  thy  flattering  kiss, 

And  have  small  faith  in  thy  smooth  surface  charms. 

Thou  fawnest  like  a  spaniel  at  my  feet. 

I  s?.e  the  wild  beast  in  thy  changeful  eyes, 

And  trust  tliee  not.     Rather  for  me  the  safe 

Green  hills  and  valleys  of  firm  earth,  —  the  joy 


SEA   SHADOWS.  135 

Of  woods  and  pastures  and  the  thousand  homes 
Lit  up  at  evening  with  home-stars  of  love, 
And  musical  with  loving  human  hearts. 

A  truer  type  of  power  than  thee  I  find 

In  the  great  morn  of  Science  that  hath  lit 

Thy  shadows,  and  the  skill  that  treads  thee  down 

Into  a  highway  for  man's  daily  steps, 

And  the  world's  multitudinous  fleets.     Three  gods 

Chiefly  I  praise,  and  not  thy  Neptune  old,— 

Magnet  and  Vapor  and  the  Electric  Fire, 

Whose  forces  tame  thy  spasms,  so  man  thy  lord 

May  plunge  across  the  roaring  water-chasms, 

And  bridge  the  measureless,  aud  come  and  go 

And  talk  at  ease  across  the  world. 

Thou  too, 

O  changeful  element  that  bore  our  ship 
Of  state  upon  thy  breast !     We  looked  abroad 
To  thy  horizon  level,  long,  and  blue 
Writh  summer  skies.     We  recked  not  of  the  storm, 
We  dreamed  not  of  the  four-years'  hurricane 
Raging  in  battle-fires,  aud  skies  of  blood, 
And  mountain  waves  that  swept  the  young  and  brave 
To  sudden  death  or  long-drawn  agonies ; 
Nor  saw  the  sunken  reefs  beneath  the  blue, 


136  SEA   SHADOWS. 

Nor  the  dire  monsters  of  thy  deeps,  nor  half 
The  hidden  horrors  of  thy  treacherous  calms  : 
But  trusted  thee  and  sailed  upon  thy  waves, 
Till  thy  brute  force  turned  on  us,  hideous,  grim, 
Forcing  the  struggle  wherein  wisdom  rose 
Triumphant.     Thee  too  shall  man's  science  t:une, 
Lighting  the  pathway  o'er  thy  perilous  deeps, 
And  travel  forth  and  back  across  thy  wastes, 
And  wed  the  sundered  lands  of  North  and  South 
Into  one  continent  of  flower  and  fruit ; 
Taking  away  the  blight  of  all  the  past, 
And  the  blind  chaos  of  Humanity. 


THE  MOUNTAIN  PATH, 


FAR,  far  above 

This  easy  slope  I  gained,  a  mountain  shines 
And  darkens  skyward  with  its  crags  and  pines ; 

And  upward  slowly  I  move, 

Because  I  know 

There  is  no  level  where  I  can  pause,  and  say, 
"  This  is  sure  gain."     It  is  too  steep  a  way 

For  mortal  foot  to  go. 

There  is  no  end 

Of  things  to  learn,  and  books  to  cram  the  brain 
They  who  know  all,  still  hunger  to  attain. 

"What  boots  it  that  they  spend 

Long  toiling  years 
To  gain  horizons  dim  and  limitless  ? 
The  higher  up,  the  more  the  soul's  distress 

In  alien  atmospheres. 


138  THE   MOUNTAIN   PATH. 

All  is  the  same. 

What  profit  hath  the  scholar  more  than  I  ? 
Let  bookworms  crawl.     Better  to  leap  or  fly 

With  some  small  earnest  aim. 

What  is  the  good 

Of  heaping  pile  on  pile  of  musty  lore  ? 
Nor  paper  promises,  nor  uncoined  ore 

Can  buy  the  spirit's  food. 

Even  the  flame 

Of  morning  burning  o'er  yon  cedar  heights 
Is  dull,  unless  an  inward  morn  delights. 

All  sunshine  is  the  same. 

Our  skill  and  wit 

Snare  us  in  useless  labor  and  routine. 
The  more  we  search,  the  more  retires  unseen 

Nature  the  Infinite. 

The  same  in  all. 

And  telescope  and  microscope  but  teach 
One  mystery,  far  above,  below  our  reach. 

There  is  no  great  or  small, 


THE  MOUNTAIN   PATH.  139 

No  grand  or  mean  ; 

No  end,  and  no  beginning.     For  we  float 
In  Being,  and  learn  all  our  creeds  by  rote, 

Nor  see  through  Heaven's  screen. 

This,  mainly  this, 

We  cling  to,  —  hope  that  as  we  upward  climb, 
Some  essence  of  the  juices  of  the  time, 

Some  light  we  cannot  miss, 

Gives  toil  its  worth  ; 

Secretes  and  feeds  and  builds  up  strong  and  fair 
The  young  recipient  being  with  food  and  air 

Of  mingled  heaven  and  earth. 

Only  what  creeps 

As  sap  from  trunk  to  tree,  from  branch  to  flower, 
Tills  with  the  quiet  plenitude  of  power 

The  oak's  unconscious  deeps  ; 

While  south-winds  sift, 

Rain  falls  and  sunlight  sparkles  through  the  leaves, 
And  the  gnarled  regent  of  the  woods  receives 

The  heaven's  benignant  gift. 


140  THE   MOUNTAIN   PATH. 

What  the  soul  needs, 

It  takes  to  itself,  —  aromas,  sounds,  and  sights, 
Beliefs  and  hopes  ;  finds  star-tracks  through  the  nights, 

And  miracles  in  weeds  ; 

Grows  unawares 

To  greatness,  through  small  help  and  accidents, 
Puzzling  the  pedagogue  Eoutine,  whose  tents 

It  leaves  for  manlier  cares. 

And  by  the  light 

Of  some  great  law  that  shines  on  passing  facts, 
Some  nobler  purpose  blending  with  our  acts, 

We  read  our  tasks  aright ; 

And  gain  the  trust 

That  knowledge  is  best  wealth.     So  shall  the  ends 
Crown  the  beginnings.     He  who  wisely  spends, 

Gathers  the  stars  as  dust. 

1868. 


BIED  LANGUAGE. 

ONE  day  in  the  bluest  of  summer  weather, 
Sketching  under  a  whispering  oak, 

I  heard  five  bobolinks  laughing  together 
Over  some  ornithological  joke. 

What  the  fun  was  I  could  n't  discover. 

Language  of  birds  is  a  riddle  on  earth. 
What  could  they  find  in  white  weed  and  clover 

To  split  their  sides  with  such  musical  mirth  ? 

Was  it  some  prank  of  the  prodigal  summer, 
Face  in  the  cloud  or  voice  in  the  breeze, 

Querulous  catbird,  woodpecker  drummer, 
Cawing  of  crows  high  over  the  trees  ? 

Was  it  some  chipmunk's  chatter,  or  weasel 
Under  the  stone-wall  stealthy  and  sly  ? 

Or  was  the  joke  about  me  at  my  easel, 
Trying  to  catch  the  tints  of  the  sky  ? 


142  BIRD   LANGUAGE. 

Still  they  flew  tipsily,  shaking  all  over, 
Bubbling  with  jollity,  brimful  of  glee, 

While  I  sat  listening  deep  in  the  clover, 
Wondering  what  their  jargon  could  be. 

'T  was  but  the  voice  of  a  morning  the  brightest 
That  ever  dawned  over  yon  shadowy  hills  ; 

'T  was  but  the  song  of  all  joy  that  is  lightest,  - 
Sunshine  breaking  in  laughter  and  trills. 


Vain  to  conjecture  the  words  they  are  singing ; 

Only  by  tones  can  we  follow  the  tune 
In  the  full  heart  of  the  summer  fields  ringing, 

Ringing  the  rhythmical  gladness  of  June  ! 


THE  CHANGING  YEAK, 


All,  fleeting  year  that  wilt  not  pause  a  day 
To  leave  a  picture  of  thy  changeful  moods  ! 

Glories  scarce  shown  and  seen,  and  snatched  away, 
Of  sunsets,  flushing  roses,  fields  and  woods. 

Tho  early  blossoms  leave  the  rugged  thorn ; 

The  purple  lilacs  wither  in  the  lanes  ; 
The  violets'  breath,  sweet  for  one  April  morn, 

Is  stifled  in  dead  leaves  and  drowning  rains. 

The  chrome-gold  dandelion  stars  of  spring 
Burn  out  in  ashy  globes  ere  June  is  passed. 

Too  soon  the  hidden  thrushes  cease  to  sing, 

Too  soon  the  summer  leaves  hear  autumn's  blast. 

And  ere  we  know,  the  locust's  long-drawn  trill 
Swells  in  the  August  noon,  and  nights  grow  cool, 

And  see-saw  katydids  foretell  the  chill 
Of  leafless  forest  and  of  icy  pool. 


144  THE   CHANGING  YEAR. 

And  flaunting  golden-rods,  and  cardinal  flowers, 
And  drooping  golden  helmets  skirt  the  streams, 

And  sighing  winds  give  warning,  and  the  hours 
Of  sunshine  waste  in  cloudy  twilight  gleams. 

Yet  paint  thy  pictures,  Time,  and  sing  thy  songs  ! 

Thy  pictures  fade,  thy  songs  die  on  the  air. 
Thou  canst  not  take  what  to  the  soul  belongs,  — 

Beauty's  immortal  essence  everywhere. 

The  summer  goes,  brown  autumn  treads  behind, 
White  winter  scowls  afar  upon  my  rhyme. 

I  feel  a  Presence  that  is  unconfined ; 

I  hear  a  Voice  whose  music  fills  all  time. 


SOFT,  BROWN,  SMILING  EYES, 

SONG. 

I. 

SOFT,  brown,  smiling  eyes, 

Looking  back  through  years, 
Smiling  through  the  mist  of  time, 

Filling  mine  with  tears, 
On  this  sunny  morn, 

While  the  grape-blooms  swing 
In  the  scented  air  of  June,  — 

"Why  these  memories  bring  ? 

ii. 

Silky  rippling  curls, 

Tresses  long  ago 
Laid  beneath  the  shaded  sod 

Where  the  violets  blow,  — 
Why  across  the  blue 

Of  the  peerless  day 
Do  ye  droop  to  meet  my  own, 

Now  all  turned  to  gray  ? 
7 


146  SOFT,  BROWN,  SMILING  EYES. 

III. 
Voice  whose  tender  tones 

Break  in  sudden  mirth, 
Heard  far  back  in  boyhood's  spring, 

Silent  now  on  earth,  — 
Why  so  sweet  and  clear, 

While  the  bird  and  bee 
Fill  the  balmy  summer  air, 

Come  your  tones  to  me  ? 

IV. 

Sweet,  ah,  sweeter  far 

Than  yon  thrush's  trill, 
Sadder,  sweeter  than  the  wind, 

Woods,  or  murmuring  rill, 
Spirit  words  and  songs 

O'er  my  senses  creep. 
Do  I  breathe  the  air  of  dreams  ? 

Do  I  wake  or  sleep  ? 


THE  DEEAM  OF  PILATE'S  WIPE. 

"  When  Pilate  was  set  down  on  the  judgment-seat,  his  wife  sent  unto  him, 
saying,  '  Have  thou  nothing  to  do  with  that  just  man :  for  I  have  suffered 
many  things  this  day  in  a  dream  because  of  him."  — Matthew  xxvii.  19. 

1  KXOW  my  lord  would  laugh  my  dream  to  scorn. 
He  dreams  no  dreams ;  or  else  sees  truth  and  dream 
The  same.     Why  should  I  tell  him  ?     What  a  night ! 
If  I  should  speak  its  visions,  I  believe 
The  very  augurs  would  declare  me  mad  ; 
And  these  fanatic  Jews  themselves  would  say 
No  prophet  of  their  sacred  books  e'er  saw 
In  fasting  trance  so  weird  a  world. 

Methought 

I  stood  before  the  Temple  gates.     A  vast 
And  wondrous  moonlight  flooded  the  huge  pile, 
Whose  pillars  gleamed  with  stately  white  and  gold. 
And  on  the  steps  one  stood,  and  stretched  his  arms, 
And  called,  "  Come  unto  me,  come  unto  me, 
All  ye  who  labor  and  are  heavy  laden, 


148  THE   DREAM   OF   PILATE'S  WIFE. 

And  I  will  give  you  rest !  "     Sweet  was  that  voice, 

And  plaintive,  with  an  undertone  of  strength, 

That  thrilled  the  soul  with  strange  unrest  and  love. 

Nor  less  did  love  burn  in  his  earnest  eyes. 

But  all  the  people  hurried  by,  and  scoffed, 

Or  laughed.    None  came  to  him.    None  took  his  hand. 

Yet  still  he  stood  there,  like  some  eloquent 

Grand  statue  of  our  Eoman  Pantheon  — 

But  different.     Jove  and  Apollo  thus 

Never  were  fashioned  by  the  sculptor's  hand. 

But  my  dream  changed.     The  golden  moonlight  paled 

Under  a  flying  scud  of  mist,  and  all 

Grew  black  behind  the  Temple.     Muttering  moans 

Of  thunder  growled  afar  o'er  Olivet. 

The  monumental  cypresses  beyond 

The  walls  grew  blacker,  and  the  olive-trees 

Tossed  like  gray  phantoms,  their  huge  twisted  trunks 

Moaning  and  shivering.     A  great  wind  arose 

And  bore  a  blare  of  trumpets  from  the  west, 

"Wailing  along  the  sky.     Then  shadowy  shapes, 

That  seemed  the  semblance  of  an  army,  passed, 

Tumultuous,  crowding  all  their  serried  force 

With  chariots  and  with  flying  standards  on 

Into  one  solid  thunder-cloud,  whence  rolled 


THE   DREAM   OF  PILATE'S   WIFE.  149 

Swift  balls  of  fire  and  crashing  thunder-peals, 

Till  the  whole  Temple  rocked.     But  in  the  pause 

Between  the  peals  I  heard  upon  the  steps 

That  voice  still  plaintive  as  a  wind-harp's  tone. 

"  Jerusalem,  Jerusalem  !  "  it  cried  ; 

"  Thou  that  dost  stone  the  prophets,  thou  whose  hand 

N  als  to  the  bitter  and  the  shameful  cross 

The  bringers  of  good  tidings,  —  ah,  how  oft 

Would  I  have  gathered  tliee  unto  my  heart, 

As  the  hen  gathereth  her  young  !     But  ye 

Would  not.     Behold  your  hour  has  come  !  " 

And  then, 

The  changes  of  my  dream  swept  me  along 
Through  streets  I  never  saw,  through  low-arched  doors, 
Through  cramped  and  tortuous  caves,  up  marble  steps, 
Through  royal  halls  that  opened  vistas  long, 
Past  golden  thrones,  where  kings  and  emperors 
Sat  mute  and  dead ;  past  endless  hurrying  crowds, 
Past  gleaming  files  of  grim  centurions,  — 
On,  till  I  reached  a  bleak  and  windy  hill. 
And  some  one  whispered,  "  Golgotha !  "     There  hung 
The  youth  whom  they  accuse  to-day,  upon 
The  lloman  gibbet.     Low  his  head  \vas  bowed 
In  agonizing  death.     But  slowly  his  form 
Grew  luminous,  and  luminous  the  cross, 


150  THE   DREAM   OF   PILATE'S   WIFE. 

And  the  great  light  increased  till  all  the  place 

Was  morning  sunshine.     And,  behold,  the  crowd 

Around  all  vanished  in  the  blaze.     Behold, 

The  pale  kings  crumbled  on  their  shadowy  thrones. 

The  iron  legions  blew  away  like  smoke. 

Yea,  the  great  Temple  and  the  city  walls 

And  all  the  people  faded  into  air. 

But  that  strange  cross,  with  him  who  hung  thereon, 

Grew  to  a  blinding  sun. 

Then  a  voice  spoke,  — 

"  The  heavenly  kingdom  cometh  upon  earth. 
The  truth  —  not  mine,  but  God's  and  man's  —  the  truth 
Man's  soul  is  born  to  inherit  as  the  air 
And  sunshine,  comes  not  to  destroy,  but  comes 
Creating  all  things  new,  till  the  whole  earth 
Is  saturated  with  the  love  of  God, 
And  all  mankind  are  one  great  family." 
Then,  far  away,  along  the  horizon's  verge 
I  saw  a  city  shining ;  half  on  earth 
It  seemed,  and  half  in  air.     "  Berhaps,"  I  thought, 
"  This  is  great  Rome,  and  I  shall  find  the  house 
I  lived  in  when  a  girl,  and  shield  myself 
In  its  cool  courts  from  this  intense  strange  light." 
And  then  I  hurried  on,  o'er  rugged  rocks, 
O'er  windy  plains,  down  valleys  dim  and  damp, 


THE   DllEAM    OF   PILATE'S   WIFE.  151 

That  held  the-  twilight  all  day  long  ;  till  all 

Grew  dark  about  me,  groping  through  the  gloom. 

Then,  suddenly,  a  yawning  precipice 

Ended  my  flight,  and  giddy  on  its  verge 

I  sank,  and  slid  —  down,  down,  clutching  the  air,  — 

Shot  through  with  dizzy  horror,  —  while  pale  forms 

Of  nameless  terror  at  the  bottom  stood 

And  stretched  long  arms  to  grasp  me,  —  when  I  woke. 

I  woke,  drenched  with  great  drops  of  agony  ; 

And  lay  awake,  counting  the  weird,  wan  hours 

Of  murky  dawn.     I  will  not  tell  my  dream 

To  Pilate,  only  that  I  dreamed  of  Him, 

The  wondrous  teacher,  suffering  much  in  dreams. 

I  trust  my  lord  will  bear  no  part  to-day 

In  this  unhallowed  trial.     Else  I  fear 

Some  hidden  curse  will  light  upon  our  house. 

Siu-h  visions  cannot  be  false  auguries. 

1SG;J. 


THE  DISPUTE  OF  THE  SEVEN  DAYS, 


UNCE  on  a  time  the  days  of  the  week 
Quarrelled  and  made  bad  weather. 

The  point  was  which  of  the  seven  was  best ; 
So  they  all  disputed  together. 

And  Monday  said,  "  I  wash  the  clothes  "  ; 

And  Tuesday  said,  "  I  air  'em  " ; 
And  "Wednesday  said,  "  I  iron  the  shirts  "; 

And  Thursday  said,  "  I  wear  'cm." 

And  Friday,  "  I  'm  the  day  for  fish  "  ; 

And  Saturday,  "  Children  love  me  "  ; 
And  Sunday,  "  I  am  the  Sabbath  day, 

I  'in  sure  there  are  none  above  me." 

O  :e  said,  "  I  am  the  fittest  for  work  "  ; 

And  one,  "  I  am  fittest  for  leisure." 
Another,  "  I  'm  best  for  prayer  and  praise  " 

And  another,  "  I  'in  best  for  pleasure." 


THE   DISPUTE   OF  THE   SEVEN   DAYS.         153 

Arguing  thus,  they  flapped  their  wings, 

And  puffed  up  every  feather ; 
They  blew  and  rained  and  snowed  arid  hailed  : 

There  never  was  seen  such  weather. 

Old  Father  Time  was  passing  by, 

And  heard  the  hurly-burly. 
Said  he,  "  Here  's  something  going  wrong ; 

It 's  well  I  was  up  so  early. 

"  These  children  of  mine  have  lost  their  wits 

And  seem  to  be  all  non  compos. 
I  never  knew  them  to  gabble  thus. 

Hollo  there  !  —  stop  that  rumpus  ! 

"  I  should  think  you  a  flock  of  angry  geese, 
To  hear  your  screaming  and  bawling. 

Indeed,  it  would  seem  by  the  way  it  snows, 
Goose -feathers  are  certainly  falling. 

"  You,  Sunday,  sir,  with  your  starched  cravat, 
Black  coat,  and  church-veneering,  — 

Tell  me  the  cause  of  this  angry  spat ; 
Speak  loud,  —  I  am  hard  of  hearing. 

7* 


154         THE   DISPUTE    OF   THE    SEVEN   DAYS. 

"You  are  the  foremost  talker  here; 

The  wisest  sure  you  should  be. 
I  little  thought  such  a  deuce  of  a  row 

As  you  are  all  making,  could  be." 

Then  Sunday  said,  "  Good  Father  Time, 

The  case  is  clear  as  noonday  ; 
For  ever  since  the  world  was  made, 

The  Lord's  day  has  been  Sunday. 

"  The  church  -          Here  Monday  started  up  : 
"  The  folks  are  glad  when  you  leave  'em ; 

They  all  want  me  to  give  'em  their  work, 

And  the  pleasures  of  which  you  bereave  'em." 

But  Tuesday  said,  "  I  finish  your  chores, 
And  do  them  as  fine  as  a  fiddle." 

And  Wednesday,  "  I  am  the  best  of  you  all 
Because  I  stand  in  the  middle." 

And  Thursday,  Friday,  Saturday,  each 
Said  things  that  I  can't  remember. 

And  so  they  might  have  argued  their  case 
From  March  until  December. 


THE   DISPUTE   OF  THE   SEVEN   DAYS.         155 

But  Father  Tcmpus  cut  them  short : 

"  My  children,  why  this  pother  ? 
There  is  no  best,  there  is  no  worst ; 

One  day  's  just  like  another. 

"  To  God's  great  eye  all  shine  alike 

As  in  their  primal  beauty. 
That  day  is  best  whose  deeds  are  best ; 

That  worst  that  fails  in  duty. 

"  Where  Justice  lights  the  passing  hours, 

Where  Love  is  wise  and  tender, 
There  beams  the  radiance  of  the  skies, 

There  shines  a  day  of  splendor." 


A  THEUSH  IN  A  GILDED  CAGE. 

W  AS  this  the  singer  I  had  heard  so  long, 
But  never  till  this  evening,  face  to  face  ? 

And  were  they  his,  those  tones  so  unlike  song, 
Those  words  conventional  and  commonplace  ? 

Those  echoes  of  the  usual  social  chat 

That  filled  with  noise  confused  the  crowded  hall 
That  smiling  face,  black  coat,  and  white  cravat ; 

Those  fashionable  manners,  —  was  this  all  ? 

He  glanced  at  freedmen,  operas,  politics, 
And  other  common  topics  of  the  day  ; 

But  not  one  brilliant  image  did  he  mix 
With  all  the  prosy  things  he  had  to  say. 

At  least  I  hoped  that  one  I  long  had  known, 
In  the  inspired  books  that  built  his  fame, 

Would  breathe  some  word,  some  sympathetic  tone, 
Fresh  from  the  ideal  region  whence  he  came. 


A   THRUSH    IN    A   GILDED   CAGE.  157 

Arid  so  I  leave  the  well-dressed,  "buzzing  crowd, 
And  vent  my  spleen  alone  here  by  my  fire  ; 

Mourning  the  fading  of  my  golden  cloud, 
The  disappointment  of  my  life's  desire. 

Simple  enthusiast !  why  do  you  require 
A  budding  rose  for  every  thorny  stalk  ? 

Why  must  we  poets  always  bear  the  lyre 
And  sing,  when  fashion  forces  us  to  talk  ? 

Only  at  moments  comes  the  muse's  light. 

Alone,  like  shy  wood-thrushes,  warble  we. 
Catch  us  in  traps  like  this  dull  crowd  to-night, 

We  are  but  plain,  brown-feathered  birds,  you  see  ! 


IJNDEK  THE  SKYLIGHT, 


1  HAVE  no  office  with  staring  sign 
Down  in  the  noise  of  the  crowded  mart. 

A  window  square  to  the  sky  is  mine 
In  an  humble  loft,  where  all  apart 
I  live,  with  my  friends  and  books  and  art. 

No  currents  of  gold  from  Wall  Street  come 
To  breed  the  fever  of  loss  and  gain ; 

But  the  golden  sunlight  warms  my  home, 
Or  on  my  skylight  patters  the  rain, 
As  I  paint  or  sing  my  castles  in  Spain. 

No  checks  that  smile  for  a  day,  and  melt, 
The  postman  brings  to  my  humble  door ; 

But  letters  from  friends  whose  love  is  felt 
To  be  richer  than  all  the  golden  store 
Of  the  millionnaire  whose  soul  is  poor. 


UNDER  THE   SKYLIGHT.  159 

Gold  is  good,  but  'tis  not  the  best. 
True  love's  bank,  can  it  ever  break  ? 

What  if  it  should  ?     The  sun  in  the  west 
Sinks  and  rises  again,  to  make 
A  long,  long  banquet  of  Give  and  Take. 

Time  is  passing,  but  time  is  renewed. 
Life  runs  over  with  wealth  untold. 

Age  grows  younger  in  all  that  is  good, 

Reaping  the  fields  where  Youth  stood  cold 

In  the  dfear  bare  furrows,  and  dreamed  of  gold. 

What  if  the  light  of  our  matin-prime 

Pales  in  the  storm  with  a  struggling  beam ; 

One  ripe  day  of  life's  latter  time 
Is  worth  a  hundred  of  fitful  gleam, 
Is  worth  long  years  of  an  aimless  dream. 

0  misty  land  of  uncertain  youth, 

Low-lying  swamps  of  fear  and  doubt ! 

We  have  left  you  below  for  the  heights  of  truth. 
We  have  found  through  the  fogs  a  pathway  out. 
Below  us  the  youths  and  maidens  shout, 

Wandering,  careless,  through  roads  unknown, 
Wrapped  in  the  soft,  Avarm,  vapory  air. 


160  UNDER  THE   SKYLIGHT. 

Here  in  the  clear,  still  upper  zone 
We  see  how  wide  is  life,  how  fair, 
While  age's  light  gilds  age's  care. 

What  if  the  snow-wreath  crown  our  heads  ? 

We  gain  the  electric  strength  of  frost. 
We  are  treading  the  path  each  mortal  treads. 

We  are  nearing  the  spring.     We  have  counted  the  cost. 

We  trust,  ay,  know  we  shall  not  be  lost. 


I  IN  THEE,   AND  THOU  IN   MR. 


1  AM  but  clay  in  thy  hands,  but  Thou  art  the  all-loving 
artist. 

Passive  I  lie  in  thy  sight,  yet  in  my  selfhood  I  strive 
So  to  embody  the  life  and  the  love  thou  ever  impartest, 

That  in  my  sphere  of  the  finite  I  may  be  truly  alive. 

Knowing  thou  needest  this  form,  as  I  thy  divine  inspiration, 
Knowing  thou  shapest  the  clay  with  a  vision  and  pur 
pose  divine, 
So  would  I  answer  each  touch  of  thy  hand  in  its  loving 

creation, 

That  in  my  conscious  life  thy  power  and  beauty  may 
shine, 

Reflecting   the   noble   intent   thou  hast  in  forming  thy 

creatures ; 

Waking  from  sense  into  life  of  the  soul,  and  the  image 
of  thee  \ 

K 


162  I   IN   THEE,   AND   THOU   IN  ME. 

Working   with   thee   in  thy  work  to  model  humanity's 

features 

Into  the  likeness  of  God,  myself  from  myself  I  would 
free. 

« 
One  with  all  human  existence,  no  one  above  or  below  me ; 

Lit  by  thy  wisdom  and  love,  as  roses  are  steeped  in 

the  morn ; 
Growing  from  clay  to  a  statue,  from  statue  to  flesh,  till 

thou  know  me 

Wrought  into  manhood  celestial,  and  in  thine  image 
re-born. 

So  in  thy  love  will  I  trust,  bringing  me  sooner  or  later 
Past  the  dark  screen  that  divides  these  shows  of  the 
finite  from  thee. 

Thine,  thine  only,  this  warm  dear  life,  O  loving  Creator  ! 
Thine  the  invisible  future,  born  of  the  present,  must  be. 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  MARGARET  FULLER  OSSOLI. 

ODE  READ  AT  THE  CELEBRATION  OF  HER  BIRTHDAY  BY  THE 
NEW  ENGLAND  WOMEN'S  CLUB,  BOSTON,  MAY  23,  1870. 

I. 

LlF.E'S  rearward  vistas  slowly  close  behind, 
And  evermore  recede,  the  glare  and  shade 
Blending  in  neutral  tints  far  down  the  glade 

Where  youth  stepped  unconfined, 
Or  bounded  upwards,  light  and  undismayed, 
Or  struggled  through  the  underbrush  and  thorns, 
Baffled  and  mad  to  hear  the  winding  horns     „ 
So  far  away  triumphant  on  the  heights 
Where  some  found  truth,  some  error's  foggy  breath, 

And  some  fame's  evanescent  lights, 
Or  desolate  old  age,  or  crown  of  early  death. 

ii. 

Dim  in  the  distance  fade 
The  sunshine  and  the  shade  ; 


164        ODE   TO   MARGARET  FULLER   OSSOLI. 

And  many  a  light  that  blazed  and  shone, 

Into  the  horizon's  mist  has  gone. 

One  record  rises  from  our  past, 

That  shall  forever  last ; 

A  name  our  age  can  never 

From  its  remembrance  sever. 

We  bear  it  in  our  hearts  to-day, 

Fresh  as  the  perfume  of  the  May. 
It  vibrates  in  the  air,  a  rich,  full-chorded  strain 

Touched  with  weird  minor  moods  of  pain, 
The  music  of  a  life  revealed  to  few, 
Till  to  the  age  Death  gave  the  fame  long  due, 
And  made  the  unfinished  symphony  a  part 
Of  the  great  growing  century's  mind  and  heart. 

in. 
But  jvhen  I  strive  the  music  to  rehearse, 

How  feebly  rings  my  verse ! 
And  why  intone  this  melody  of  rhyme 
For  one,  the  noblest  woman  of  her  time, 
Whose  soul,  a  pure  and  radiant  chrysolite, 
Dims  the  superfluous  arts  our  social  forms  invite  ? 

Yet  she  whose  ear  so  well  could  understand 
The  singer's  meaning,  though  unskilled  the  hand 


ODE   TO   MARGARET  FULLER   OSSOLI.         1G5 

That  swept  the  imperfect  chords 

Kesponsive  to  his  words, 

Would  not  disdain  the  slenderest  song  he  brings, 
Nor  slight  the  impulse  of  the  earnest  strings. 

So,  while  we  gather  here, 
Fain  would  I  bring  some  offering  sincere 

Though  small,  —  a  flower  or  two, 
Pale  amaranth,  wild  rose,  or  harebell  blue, 
Or  throw  at  least  a  chaplet  on  her  bier. 

IV. 

While  others  stood  aloof  and  smiled  in  scorn 

Of  one  to  new  and  noble  effort  born  ; 

Or  from  tame  rounds  of  fashion  and  of  wealth 

Turned,  glancing  back  by  stealth, 
And  wondered,  then  but  slowly,  faintly  praised 
The  exuberant  soul  that  dared  to  flash  and  soar 
Beyond  the  petty  bounds 
Of  their  trim  garden  grounds,  — 

She  with  wise  intuition  raised 

Her  image  of  ideal  womanhood, 

The  incarnate  True  and  Fair  and  Good, 
Set  in  a  light  but  seldom  seen  before. 
While  with  the  early  watchers  in  the  dawn 
Of  intellectual  faith  her  hopeful  eyes, 


166         ODE   TO   MARGARET   FULLER   OSSOLI. 

Patiently  waiting,  from  the  crowd  withdrawn, 

She  saw  a  newer  morning  rise 
And  flame  from  cloud  to  cloud,  and  climb 
Across  the  dreary  tracts  of  time. 
The  garnered  wisdom  of  the  past  she  drew 
Into  her  life,  as  flowers  the  sun  and  dew ; 
Yet  valued  all  her  varied  lore 
But  as  the  avenue  and  door 
That  opened  to  the  Primal  Beam 
And  sense  of  Truth  supreme. 

• 

And  so  beyond  her  earlier  bounds  she  grew,  — 

All  the  quaint  essences  from  study  gained 

Fused  in  a  human  fellowship  anew ; 
While  that  too  conscious  life,  in  younger  years  o'erstraincd, 

Of  long,  deep,  lonely  introversion  born, 

Distilled  like  dews  of  morn, 
And  dropped  on  high  and  low  the  blessing  it  contained. 

Her  glowing  pen  through  many  a  thoughtful  page 

Discoursed  in  subtle  questions  of  the  age, 

Or  glanced  in  lighter  mood  at  themes  less  grave, 

The  brilliant  glitter  of  a  summer  wave. 

Her  sweet  persuasive  voice  we  still  can  hear 

Huling  her  charmed  circle  like  a  queen ; 

While  wit  and  fancy  sparkled  ever  clear 


ODE  TO   MARGARET  FULLER   OSSOLI.        1C7 

Her  graver  moods  between. 

The  pure  perennial  heat 
Of  youth's  ideal  love  forever  glowed 
Through  all  her  thoughts  and  words,  and  overflowed 

The  listeners  round  her  seat. 

So,  like  some  fine-strung  golden  harp, 
Tuned  by  many  a  twist  and  warp 
Of  discipline  and  patient  toil, 
And  oft  disheartening  recoil,  — 
Attuned  to  highest  and  to  humblest  use,  — 
All  her  large  heroic  nature 
Grew  to  its  harmonious  stature. 
Nor  any  allotted  service  did  refuse, 
While  those  around  her  but  half  understood 

How  wise  she  was,  how  good, 
How  nobly  self-denying,  as  she  tasked 
Heart,  mind,  and  strength  for  truth,  nor  nobler  office  asked. 

v. 

Nor  honor  less,  nor  praise 
To  her  whose  later  days 

Were  pledged  to  lift  wronged  Justice  to  her  seat. 
And  though  Home's  new-lit  torch 
l)U'\v  backward,  but  to  scorch 


168        ODE   TO   MARGARET  FULLER  OSSOLI. 

The  "hand  that  held  it,  dropping  at  her  feet; 
Quenched  in  the  patriots'  blood,  riot  incomplete 
Her  task,  though  all  the  heroic  strains  she  sang 
To  chronicle  a  struggling  nation's  pang  — 

The  records  of  the  strife 

That  agonized  its  life  — 

Were  strewn  upon  the  wind  like  withered  flowers, 
And  gulfed  in  roaring  floods,  —  Italia's  loss,  and  ours  ! 

Alas  !  how  could  we  with  our  lamp  of  hope 
Eead  thy  perplexed  and  darkened  horoscope  ? 
How  could  we  know,  when  Destiny's  great  loom 
Thy  life's  most  precious  threads  inwove 
With  all  love's  rich  embroidery  of  love, 
That  its  bright  tissue  held  the  shade 
Of  death  across  the  golden  braid,  — 
The  inevitable  woof  of  death  and  tragic  doom  ! 
When  ties  were  sweetest,  dearest ; 
When  love,  when  hope,  were  nearest ; 
When  eyes  grew  bright  to  greet  thee ; 
When  arms  were  stretched  to  meet  thee ; 
When  all  thy  life  was  flowering 

As  in  a  garden  home,  — 
The  storm  beyond  was  lowering, 
The  cud  of  all  was  come  ! 


ODE  TO   MARGARET  FULLER  OSSOLI.        109 

I  seem  to  hear 

The  grand,  sweet  music  of  that  earnest  life, 
Grander  and  sweeter  in  its  later  strife, 
Stop,  suddenly  drowned  amid  the  tempest  drear. 

I  hear  that  harp  whose  strings, 

Whose  delicate,  thoughtful  strings  should  well  have  played 
Some  hopeful  melody  of  woods  and  springs ; 

Some  high  heroic  march 

Beneath  a  Roman  arch ; 

Some  lofty  strain  that  made 

The  soul  Hush  to  its  sharing 

The  soldier's  toil  and  daring,  — 
Swept,  like  a  wind-harp  to  wild  agony 

By  bitter  winds  of  destiny  ; 

Then,  musical  no  more, 
Dead,  mute,  and  shattered  on  the  lonely  shore  ! 


VI. 

Had  fote  accorded  with  love's  passionate  prayer ; 
Had  she  lived  on  with  us,  with  us  grown  old, 
Through  war,  through  peace,  through  present  toil  and  care, 
Through  future  progress  ;  could  she  now  behold 
The  triumph  of  the  land, 
Standing  where  now  we  stand,  — 
8 


170         ODE   TO   MARGARET   FULLER   OSSOLI. 

The  nation  saved  from  brute  Eebellion's  strife, 
And  pledged  to  live  a  newer,  healtliier  life ; 
Had  she  but  seen  our  wider  range, 
The  splendor  of  our  coming  lights, 
Her  vision  and  her  strength  grown  with  her  change 

Prom  lonely  days  and  nights, 
To  all  that  woman  needs  to  make  complete 

In  wifehood  and  maternal  ties 
The  ripened  mind  and  heart,  —  a  union  sweet, 
Tender  and  strong  and  wise. 

But  ah  !     Fate  suffered  not, 

Nor  stayed  her  hasting  feet. 

No  record  but  a  blot, 

A  cherished  leaf  or  two 

Of  tender  love  arid  true,  — 
No  other  relic  sad  and  sweet 

The  cruel  sea  gave  back 

From  out  the  storm  and  wrack, 

From  out  the  billows  wild. 

Only  one  little  child 

The  weeping  sailors  bore 

And  buried  on  that  shore,  — 
All  that  the  ocean  left  of  thine  and  thee, 
O  friend,  whom  we  again  shall  never  see ! 


ODE  TO   MARGARET   FULLER   OSSOLI.        171 

VII. 

Where  now,  where, 

0  spirit  pure,  where  walk  those  shining  feet  ? 
"Whither,  in  groves  beyond  the  treacherous  seas, 
Beyond  our  sense  of  time,  divinely,  dimly  fair, 
Brighter  than  gardens  of  Hesperides,  — 
Whither  dost  thou  move  on,  complete 
And  beauteous,  ringed  around 
In  mystery  profound, 
By  gracious  companies  who  share 
That  strange,  supernal  air  ! 
Or  art  thou  sleeping  dreamless,  knowing  naught 

Of  good  or  ill,  of  life  or  death  ? 
Or  art  thou  but  a  breeze  of  Heaven's  breath, 

A  portion  of  all  life,  inwrought 
In  the  eternal  essence  ?  —  All  in  vain, 
Tangled  in  misty  webs  of  time, 
Out  on  the  undiscovered  clime 
Our  clouded  eyes  we  strain. 
We  cannot  pierce  the  veil. 
As  the  proud  eagles  fail 
Upon  their  upward  track, 
And  flutter  gasping  back 
From  the  thin  empyrean,  so  with  wing 
Baffled  and  humbled,  we  but  guess 


172         ODE   TO    MARGARET   FULLER   OSSOLI. 

All  we  shall  gain,  by  all  the  soul's  distress, 
All  we  shall  be,  by  our  poor  worthiness. 

And  so  we  write  and  sing 
Our  dreams  of  time  and  space,  and  call  them  —  heaven. 

We  only  know  that  all  is  for  the  best  ; 
To  God  we  leave  the  rest. 

So,  reverent  beneath  the  mystery 

Of  life  and  death,  we  yield 
Back  to  the  great  Unknown  the  spirit  given 
A  few  brief  years  to  blossom  in  our  field. 

Nor  shall  time's  all-devouring  sea 

Despoil  this  brightest  century 
Of  all  thou  hast  been,  and  shalt  ever  be. 

The  age  shall  guard  thy  fame, 

And  reverence  thy  name. 
There  is  no  cloud  on  them.     There  is  no  death  for  thee  ! 


IAPIS, 

"  Phocbo  ante  alios  dilectus,  lapis 
lasides  :  acri  quondam  cui  captus  arnore 
Ipse  suas  artes,  sua  munera,  laetus  Apollo 
Augurium,  citlmramque ,  dabat,  celcresque  sagittas. 
Ille,  ut  deposit!  profcrret  fata  parentis, 
Scire  potestates  lierbarum,  iisumque  nicdendi, 
Maluit,  et  mutas  agitare  inglorius  artes." 

VIRGIL,  JEne'id,  B.  XII. 

IN  Troas,  on  Mount  Ida's  sloping  side, 

There  lived  a  shepherd  youth  whom  Phoebus  loved, 

lapis,  old  lasius'  son,  his  name. 

His  father,  feeble,  aged,  many  a  month 

Had  kept  his  couch,  or  basking  in  the  sun 

Sat,  mid  the  mossy  rocks  that  faced  the  south, 

Before  his  cottage  door.     Long  had  his  son, 

His  sole  attendant,  striven  to  bring  back 

His  father's  failing  strength  ;  but  they  were  poor, 

And  in  all  arts  medicinal  unskilled. 

Yet  all  was  done  that  filial  love  and  care, 

Unschooled  in  lore  of  herbs  and  cures,  could  do. 


174  IAPIS. 

On  Ida's  slopes,  one  night,  the  stifled  winds 

Of  summer  had  all  fainted  in  the  heats 

That  pressed  upon  the  bosoms  of  the  hills, 

But  rose  again,  with  crashing  bursts  of  storm, 

And  sweeping  rains,  that  drenched  the  piny  clefts ; 

And  through  the  incumbent  night  in  blazing  spasms 

Flashed  far  and  fast  the  thunderbolts  of  Jove ; 

A  beautiful  and  blinding  light,  that  all 

The  landscape,  and  the  distant  towers  of  Troy, 

And  the  gray  sea  away  by  Tenedos 

Seemed  dashed  with  sudden  shocks  of  moonlight  mixed 

With  chaos  and  the  black  of  Erebus. 

lapis  and  lasius  sat  beneath 

Their  humble  roof,  and  from  the  casement  gazed 

Upon  the  sky,  with  long-suspended  breath 

Between  the  ominous  intervals  of  fire 

And  thunder,  till  at  length  lapis  spoke. 

"  Father,  it  is  the  anger  of  the  gods, 

On  us  perchance ;  perchance  on  Priam's  walls 

Some  overwhelming  doom  must  fall  erelong." 

But  old  lasius  answered  :  "  Nay,  not  so. 

My  strength  ebbs  back,  as  if  a  weight  of  years 

Rolled  from  my  shoulders.     Though  I  am  no  seer, 

I  feel  the  presence  of  the  Olympian  will, 


IAPIS.  175 

Masking  benignity  in  portents  fierce, 
To  work  some  issue,  all  unknown,  yet  bright 
Tor  thce,  for  me,  and  for  the  Trojan  realm. 
Lo,  now  the  thunder  rolls  away  ;  the  rain 
Has  ceased ;  and  only  down  the  mountain  gorge 
The  torrents  leap  in  tumbling  cataracts. 
The  clouds  have  parted,  and  the  sleepy  storm 
Flutters  his  dying  fire-wings  far  away, 
Quivering  through  domes  and  pinnacles  of  cloud, 
Where  on  the  horizon  ride  the  tossing  ships, 
Black-masted,  heaving  with  the  ocean's  swell. 
I  too  would  rest.     Sleep  falls,  as  not  for  months, 
Upon  my  weary  eyes.     Thou  too,  my  son, 
More  hopefully  go  seek  thy  couch.     Some  good 
The  gods  design,  else  why  this  wondrous  calm  ?  " 

At  dawn  of  day  lapis  woke.     His  sire 

Already  was  awake,  a  peaceful  smile 

Upon  his  lips.     "  A  happy  dream  I  've  had," 

He  said,  —  "  a  dream  of  radiant  morn  and  youth. 

Golden  Apollo  mingled  with  my  trance, 

And  lit  with  splendor  each  fantastic  shape 

That  flitted  through  its  changes.     Nay,  not  now, 

I  wrill  not  tell  it  now,  —  some  day,  some  morn, 

When  thou,  poor  shepherd  boy,  shalt  need  no  more 


170  IAPIS. 

Thy  mountain  goats,  thy  staff,  and  humble  garb, 
And  sorry  penance  and  routine  of  care, 
Linked  to  the  fortunes  of  thy  tottering  sire. 
Apollo,  lo,  Apollo  loves  thee,  boy ! 
Go  forth  this  morn,  this  very  morn,  and  build 
An  altar  to  the  god  in  yonder  grove. 
With  hallowed  rites  and  willing  sacrifice 
Pray  to  the  god  of  wisdom  and  of  light." 

Then  forth  into  the  ambrosial  air  of  morn 

lapis  went,  much  pondering  in  his  mind 

What  dream  it  may  have  been  that  cheered  his  sire. 

It  was  a  morning  that  seemed  all  distilled 

Of  amber,  gold  and  gems,  and  dewy  scents 

From  fields  and  woods,  the  rhyme  of  heaven  with  earth. 

Pale  in  the  pearly  west  the  white  moon  hung 

Like  an  inverted  silver  cup  drained  dry, 

After  some  midnight  banquet  of  the  gods 

Withdrawn  into  the  blue,  with  all  their  stars. 

Beyond  the  windows  to  the  east  uprose 

A  grove  of  cedars,  dark  against  the  dawn. 

Beneath  the  shadows  of  the  antique  boughs 

The  spicy  odors  of  the  night  still  lay 

Entangled  in  the  embraces  of  the  dew. 

And  o'er  the  cedars  flamed  the  rose  and  gold 


IAPIS.  177 

Of  braided  clouds  fantastically  curled, 
Dappled  and  flecked  and  streaked  with  opal  tints  ; 
And  all  the  east  was  ringing  with  the  choirs 
Of  rapturous  birds.     So  far  away  it  seemed 
From  storms  and  sorrows  and  all  earthly  cares, 
As  though  't  were  but  a  step  from  Ida's  top 
Into  the  Olympian  calm  of  deathless  gods. 

Then  down  the  eastern  slope  lapis  stepped, 

Till  the  dense  cedars,  opening,  half  disclosed, 

Through  branches  interlaced,  the  imperial  morn 

That  burned  from  amber-gray  to  crimson-gold,  — 

The  coming  presence  of  the  god  of  light. 

Then,  as  lapis  thought  to  grasp  his  bow 

And  arrows,  and  to  slay  a  tawny  wolf, 

As  offered  victim  at  Apollo's  shrine, 

(So  had  the  youth  been  taught  by  custom  old) 

Sudden  uprose  the  sun ;  and  in  the  sun 

A  face,  whose  beauty  thrilled  him  with  strange  awe. 

And  whether  he  were  sleeping  or  awake, 

H»;  knew  not ;  yet  these  words  into  his  soul 

Passed,  with  the  rapture  of  the  rising  sun  : 

"  lapis,  not  from  thee  do  I  require 

The  death  of  aught,  though  't  were  a  prowling  wolf 

About  thy  shcepfold.     Sacrifice  to  me 


178  IAPIS. 

Is  naught,  when  true  devotion  such  as  thine 

I  know,  and  know  thy  depths  of  love  untold. 

Pair  youth,  long,  long  have  I  from  heights  serene 

Yearned  for  communion  with  the  soul  enshrined 

Within  thy  mortal  frame.     Now  have  I  come 

To  offer  thee  the  gifts  a  god  alone 

Can  give.     Lo,  here  thou  liv'st  a  shepherd's  life, 

Obscure,  inglorious,  far  from  men  and  towns, 

Par  from  the  toils  and  fame  of  mighty  men 

Whose  words  shake  kingdoms,  or  whose  daring  hands 

O'erthrow  the  embattled  masonry  of  time ; 

Or  who,  with  wisdom  half  allied  to  us, 

Invert  the  future ;  or  who  sweep  the  lyre, 

And  chant  the  strains  that  live  from  age  to  age,  — 

Our  favorites,  yet  no  dearer  to  our  soul 

Than  thou.     These,  for  the  love  I  beaiyO  youth, 

These  gifts,  Apollo's  gifts,  if  thou  but  choose, 

Are  thine,  thou  consecrate  alone  to  me !  " 

With  head  bowed  down  and  with  a  faltering  tongue, 

As  one  o'erburdened  with  a  weight  of  love 

He  not  deserves,  or  one  who  cannot  gauge 

With  customary  measuring-wand  the  depths 

Of  knowledge  hidden,  hidden  yet  desired, 

And  though  desired,  so  hard  to  be  attained ; 


IAPIS.  179 

Not  all  contented  with  his  present  lot, 

Yet  fearing  somewhat  the  steep,  slippery  heights 

Trod  by  the  shining  heroes  of  his  dreams, 

lapis  thus  replied  :  "  0  thou  who  rul'st 

The  sun,  the  day,  the  march  of  year  on  year  ! 

0  Fount  of  lighl,  whom  with  my  simple  vows 
In  rustic  fashion  every  morn  I  adore ! 

1  am  unworthy  to  accept  such  gifts. 

I  know  not  what  they  are,  I  can  but  guess 
Their  grandeur ;  seek  some  fitter  man  than  me." 

He  paused.     Again  the  golden  Presence  spoke  : 

"  To  plead  in  senates,  to  enchain  the  crowd 

With  words  of  magic  eloquence,  to  know 

The  impenetrable  future,  to  ensnare 

The  secrets  of  all  depths  and  heights  of  power, 

To  wing  the  arrow  from  the  sounding  bow 

With  fatal  aim,  to  know  the  muse  divine, 

And  thrill  the  world  with  poesy  and  song,  — 

Think  well,  these  gifts  are  thine,  if  thou  but  choose  ; 

For  I  do  love  thee  better  than  thou  know'st." 

So  radiant  was  the  sun-god's  smile,  as  thus 
He  spoke,  so  winning  were  his  tones,  so  near  . 
He  seemed  to  come,  it  was  as  though  some  friend 


180  IAPIS. 

Of  half-remembered  form,  met  in  a  dream, 
Held  speech  with  him  in  sympathetic  tones. 

Then  said  lapis,  —  for  he  had  pondered  long-, 

And  thought  upon  his  hoary-headed  sire, — 

"  O  great  Apollo,  thou  hast  left  unnamed 

One  gift  of  thine,  —  one  power  that  I  would  prize 

O'er  all  the  rest  that  thou  hast  offered  me. 

I  have  a  father,  suffering,  bent  with  age, 

And  he  is  dear  to  me,  as  I  to  him. 

Grant,  if  it  be  thy  will,  most  mighty  one, 

Grant  me  the  knowledge  of  these  herbs  that  grow 

About  my  feet  and  in  the  mountain-clefts, 

To  know  their  essence,  and  extract  the  cures 

That  lurk  within  their  leaves  and  flowers  and  roots, 

And  how  and  when  with  art  medicinal 

To  use  —  so  T  may  make  e'en  poison  serve 

The  ends  of  restoration  —  every  plant 

That  suns  itself  beneath  thy  sovereign  eye. 

Thus  to  my  failing  sire  shall  I  bring  back 

His  youth  and  health,  and  so  rejoice  with  him. 

Thus  too  shall  I  amid  our  cities  serve 

My  countrymen,  should  Avar  or  fell  disease 

Besiege  their  walls,  and  know  life's  noblest  use, 

To  help  my  fellow-men." 


IAPTS.  181 

Then  Phoebus  smiled 
With  light  so  radiantly  sweet,  the  youth 
Saw  how  each  little  flower  and  mountain  weed 
•Turned  to  the  sun-god ;  while  such  fragrance  filled 
The  morn,  as  never  save  in  heaven  is  known, 
When  all  the  gods  are  at  their  ambrosial  feasts. 

And  so  lapis  knew  his  prayer  was  heard, 

And  joyful  to  his  hut  returned,  and  told 

All  to  his  sire.     "  Lo  now,"  lasius  said, 

"  My  dream  comes  true  ;  but  other  than  I  dreamed. 

Riches,  arid  power,  and  hidden  lore,  and  skill 

In  augury  and  archery  and  the  lute 

And  poet's  pen,  —  all  these  my  fancy  found 

For  thee  in  vision,  but  no  power  to  know 

The  virtues  of  the  commonest  weed  that  grows, 

To  use  the  seeming  useless,  and  so  heal 

And  save  from  pain  and  death  thy  fellow-men. 

For  what  would  it  avail,  though  thou  shouldst  stand 

A  trained  familiar  at  the  awful  doors 

Of  life  and  death  and  miracle  and  fate, 

Knowing  the  things  that  God  alone  should  know  ? 

Or  what  to  wing  the  viewless  shaft  of  death, 

Destroying,  where  thy  hand  should  save  and  bless  ? 

Or  say  that  thou  shouldst  own  the  higher  gifts 


182  IAPIS. 

Of  eloquence  and  poesy  and  song  ? 

Better  than  poet's  dreams  and  singer's  tones, 

The  task  to  win  the  secrets  wrapped  and  hid 

In  Nature's  mute  and  unresponsive  breast, 

Whose  powers  unlocked  by  thought  shall  lift  the  race 

Of  man  to  endless  happiness  and  strength. 

Who  toils  for  fame  and  power  may  slip  and  fall 

And  crumble  to  a  puff  of  worthless  dust ; 

Who  lives  to  help  his  kind,  how  mean  soe'er 

His  lot  may  be,  deserves,  not  love  alone 

Of  all  the  immortals,  but  a  fellowship 

With  them  shall  win,  that  honors  Jove  himself." 


THE  WORKSHOP  AND  THE  BRONZE. 


1  HE  heavjng  bellows  pants  no  more, 

The  fiery  forge  is  cold  and  still, 
Wide  open  stands  the  furnace  door, 
The  ashes  on  the  hearth  are  chill ; 
The  noise,  the  labor,  and  the  heat  are  o'er. 

The  pale  light  of  the  waning  day 

Through  dim  and  smoky  windows  falls, 

And  gleams  with  melancholy  gray 

On  scattered  tools  and  blackened  walls ; 
The  weary  workmen  all  have  gone  away. 

But  on  a  pedestal,  behold, 

There  stands  a  statue  of  a  man,  — 

A  bronze  as  perfect-pure  as  gold,  — 

Completion  of  the  artist's  plan, 
Shaped  in  the  heat,  consummate  from  the  mould. 


184         THE   WORKSHOP   AND   THE   BRONZE. 

0  tliou  through  toil  and  furnace-fires 

Purged  of  the  dross  that  marred  thy  youth, 

And  moulded  to  divine  desires 

By  master-hands  of  love  and  truth, 
Till  all  thy  being  to  the  Best  aspires,  — 

Thy  earthly  house  that  saw  thy  prime 
Alive  with  busy  thought  and  hand 

May  empty  lie.     But  thou  sublime 

Shalt  in  thy  soul's  fair  image  stand, 
And  smile  at  fate  and  all  the  change  of  time. 


THE  EVENING  PKIMEOSE, 


W  HAT  are  you  looking  at  ?  "  tlie  farmer  said ; 
"  That 's  nothing  but  a  yellow  flowering  weed." 
We  turned,  and  saw  our  neighbor's  grizzled  head 
Above  the  fence,  but  took  of  him  no  heed. 

There  stood  the  simple  man,  and  wondered  much 
At  us,  who  wondered  at  the  twilight  flowers 

Bursting  to  life,  as  if  a  spirit's  touch 

Awoke  their  slumbering  souls  to  answer  ours. 

"  It  grows  all  o'er  the  island,  wild,"  said  he ; 

"  There  are  plenty  in  my  field  :  I  root  'em  out. 
But,  for  my  life,  it  puzzles  me  to  see 

What  you  make  such  a  wonderment  about." 

The  good  man  turned  and  to  his  supper  went ; 
While,  kneeling  on  the  grass  with  mute  delight 


186  THE   EVENING   PRIMROSE. 

Or  whispered  words,  around  the  plant  we  bent, 
To  watch  the  opening  buds  that  love  the  night. 

Slowly  the  rosy  dusk  of  eve  departed, 

And  one  by  one  the  pale  stars  bloomed  on  high ; 

And  one  by  one  each  folded  calyx  started, 
And  bared  its  golden  petals  to  the  sky. 

One  throb  from  star  to  flower  seemed  pulsing  through 
The  night,  —  one  living  spirit  blending  all 

In  beauty  and  in  mystery  ever  new,  — 

One  harmony  divine  through  great  and  small. 

E'en  our  plain  neighbor,  as'  he  sips  his  tea, 
I  doubt  not,  through  his  window  feels  the  sky 

Of  evening  bring  a  sweet  and  tender  plea 
That  links  him  even  to  dreamers  such  as  I. 

So  through  the  symbol-alphabet  that  glows 
Through  all  creation,  higher  still  and  higher 

The  spirit  builds  its  faith,  and  ever  grows 
Beyond  the  rude  form  of  its  first  desire. 

O  boundless  Beauty  and  Beneficence  ! 

O  deathless  Soul  that  breathest  in  the  weeds 


THE   EVENING    PRIMROSE.  187 

And  in  a  starlit  sky  !  —  e'en  through  the  rents 
Of  accident  thou  serv'st  all  human  needs  ; 

Nor  stoopest  idly  to  our  petty  cares ; 

Nor  knowest  great  or  small,  since  folded  in 
By  universal  Love,  all  being  shares 

The  life  that  ever  shall  be  or  hath  been. 

October  10,  1872. 


IN  A  ClIUECH. 


i. 

1  HE  organ  breathed  in  harmonies  so  sweet, 

That  Paradise,  with  sons  of  light  and  air, 
And  daughters  of  the  morn,  seemed  floating  round : 

Kich  modulations,  vaulting  fugues  that  bear 
The  heart  a  captive  ;  as  when  Ganymede 

Borne  by  Jove's  eagle  to  the  Olympian  feast, 
Sees  the  earth  fade,  and  all  the  sky  becomes 

Before  his  gaze  one  wide  auroral  east. 

II. 

The  sunshine,  flashing  through  the  flying  cloud, 

Struck  on  the  many-tinted  window-panes, 
And  dashed  a  chord  of  colors  on  the  wall, 

Now  strong,  now  fading  like  the  dying  strains,  — 
A  prismy  gush  of  hues  that  slid  oblique 

Down  the  gray  columns,  like  a  glowing  truth 
Whose  white  light  tinted  in  a  poet's  brain 

Breaks  in  a  thousand  rhymes  of  love  and  youth. 


IN   A   CHURCH.  189 

III. 
The  hour  was  framed  for  silent  thought  arid  prayer, 

The  place  should  seem  a  heavenly  shepherd's  fold. 
We  waited  for  a  voice  that  might  sustain 

Our  spirits'  flight,  nor  let  the  air  grow  cold 
About  our  wings,  but  bear  us  higher  still, 

Till  touched  by  faith  and  love  and  wisdom  pure, 
We  felt  the  power  that  lifted  man  to  God,  — 

The  central  truths  no  dogmas  could  obscure. 

IV. 

And  yet  the  priest,  discordant  mid  accords,  / 

With  waste  of  words,  half  truth,  half  error  mixed, 
Thin  homilies  and  theologic  prayers,  — 

He  only  jarred  the  music,  spread  betwixt 
Nature  and  God  a  cloud  that  dimmed  the  sun, 

And  made  the  inspiring  church  a  vaulted  tomb ;     / 
And  not  till  once  again  we  trod  the  street 

Vanished  that  shadow  of  imagined  doom. 


DECEMBER. 

JM  0  more  the  scarlet  maples  flash  and  burn 
Their  beacon-fires  from  hilltop  and  from  plain ; 

The  meadow-grasses  and  the  woodland  fern 
In  the  bleak  woods  lie  withered  once  again. 

The  trees  stand  bare,  and  bare  each  stony  scar 
Upon  the  cliffs  ;  half  frozen  glide  the  rills  ; 

The  steel-blue  river  like  a  scimitar 

Lies  cold  and  curve'd  between  the  dusky  hills. 

Over  the  upland  farm  I  take  my  walk, 

And  miss  the  flaunting  flocks  of  golden-rod ; 

Each  autumn  flower  a  dry  and  leafless  stalk, 
Each  mossy  field  a  track  of  frozen  sod. 

I  hear  no  more  the  robin's  summer  song 

Through  the  gray  network  of  the  wintry  woods  ; 

Only  the  cawing  crows  that  all  day  long 
Clamor  about  the  windy  solitudes. 


DECEMBER.  191 

Like  agate  stones  upon  earth's  frozen  breast, 
The  little  pools  of  ice  lie  round  and  still ; 

"While  sullen  clouds  shut  downward  east  and  west 
In  marble  ridges  stretched  from  hill  to  hill. 

Come  once  again,  0  southern  wind,  —  once  more 
Come  with  thy  wet  wings  flapping  at  my  pane ; 

Ere  snow-drifts  pile  their  mounds  about  my  door, 
One  parting  dream  of  summer  bring  again. 

Ah,  no  !  I  hear  the  windows  rattle  fast ; 

I  see  the  first  flakes  of  the  gathering  snow, 
That  dance  and  whirl  before  the  northern  blast. 

No  countermand  the  march  of  days  can  know. 

December  drops  no  weak,  relenting  tear, 
By  our  fond  summer  sympathies  ensnared ; 

Nor  from  the  perfect  circle  of  the  year 
Can  even  winter's  crystal  gems  be  spared. 

1872. 


A  CHINESE  STOEY. 

JN  ONE  are  so  wise  as  they  who  make  pretence 
To  know  what  fate  conceals  from  mortal  sense. 
This  moral  from  a  tale  of  Ho-hang-ho 
Might  have  been  drawn  a  thousand  years  ago, 
Long  ere  the  days  of  spectacles  and  lenses, 
When  men  were  left  to  their  unaided  senses. 

Two  young  short-sighted  fellows,  Chang  and  Ching, 

Over  their  chopsticks  idly  chattering, 

Fell  to  disputing  which  could  see  the  best. 

At  last  they  agreed  to  put  it  to  the  test. 

Said  Chang,  "  A  marble  tablet,  so  I  hear, 

Is  placed  upon  the  Bo-hee  temple  near, 

With  an  inscription  on  it.     Let  us  go 

And  read  it  (since  you  boast  your  optics  so), 

Standing  together  at  a  certain  place 

In  front,  where  we  the  letters  just  may  trace. 


A    CHINESE   STORY.  193 

Then  he  who  quickest  reads  the  inscription  there 
The  palm  for  keenest  eyes  henceforth  shall  bear." 

"Agreed,"  said  Ching;  "  and  let  us  try  it  soon. 
Suppose  we  say  to-morrow  afternoon." 
"  Nay,  not  so  soon,"  said  Chang  ;  "  I  'm  bound  to  go 
To-morrow  a  day's  ride  from  Ho-hang-ho, 
And  sha'  n't  be  ready  till  the  following  day. 
At  ten  A.  M.  on  Thursday,  let  us  say." 

So  't  was  arranged.     But  Ching  was  wide  awake. 
Time  by  the  forelock  he  resolved  to  take  ; 
And  to  the  temple  went  at  once,  and  read 
Upon  the  tablet,  "  To  the  illustrious  Dead, 
The  chief  of  Mandarins,  the  great  Goh-Bang." 
Scarce  had  he  gone,  when  stealthily  came  Chang, 
Who  read  the  same  ;  but,  peering  closer,  he 
Spied  in  a  corner  what  Ching  failed  to  see,  — 
The  words,  "  This  tablet  is  erected  here 
By  those  to  whom  the  great  Goh-Bang  was  dear." 

So,  on  the  appointed  day  —  both  innocent 
As  babes,  of  course  —  these  honest  fellows  went 
And  took  their  distant  station.     And  Ching  said, 
"  I  can  read  plainly,  '  To  the  illustrious  Dead, 
The  chief  of  Mandarins,  the  great  Goh-Bang.' " 
"  And  is  that  all  that  you  can  spell  ?  "  said  Chang. 


194  A   CHINESE   STORY. 

"I  see  what  you  have  read,  but  furthermore, 
In  smaller  letters,  toward  the  temple  door, 
Quite  plain,  '  This  tablet  is  erected  here 
By  those  to  whom  the  great  Goh-Bang  was  dear.'  " 

"  My  sharp-eyed  friend,  there  are  no  such  words  !  "  said 

Ching. 

"  They  're  there,"  said  Chang,  "  if  I  see  anything, 
As  clear  as  daylight !  "     "  Patent  eyes,  indeed, 
You   have !  "   cried  Ching.     "  Do  you   think   I  cannot 

read  ?  " 

"Not  at  this  distance,  as  I  can,"  Chang  said ; 
"  If  what  you  say  you  saw  is  all  you  read." 

In  fine,  they  quarrelled,  and  their  wrath  increased ; 
Till  Chang  said,  "  Let  us  leave  it  to  the  priest. 
Lo,  here  he  comes  to  meet  us."     "  It  is  well," 
Said  honest  Ching;  "no  falsehood  he  will  tell." 

The  good  man  heard  their  artless  story  through, 
And  said,  "  I  think,  dear  sirs,  there  must  be  few 
Blest  with  such  wondrous  eyes  as  those  you  wear. 
There  's  no  such  tablet  or  inscription  there. 
There  was  one,  it  is  true  ;  't  was  moved  away 
And  placed  icithin  the  temple  yesterday." 


A  SONG  OF  HOME. 


i. 

HERE  we  are  once  more  together 

Where  we  parted  long  ago  : 
Father,  mother,  sisters,  brothers  ; 

Hearts  and  faces  all  aglow. 
Rain  is  on  the  roof  above  us, 

But  no  cloud  can  chill  our  joys 
Round  the  old  familiar  table, 

As  we  sat  when  girls  and  boys. 

What  care  we  for  wind  and  rain  ? 
We  are  all  at  home  again. 

II. 

Here  still  hang  the  dear  old  pictures, 
And  the  old  books  we  used  to  share  ; 

Here  's  the  old  arm-chair  in  the  corner, 
And  the  old  clock  upon  the  stair ; 


196  A   SONG   OP   HOME. 

There  the  roses  at  the  window 
Tossing  up  against  the  pane, 
And  the  old  pear-tree  in  the  garden, 
And  the  lilacs  in  the  lane. 

What  care  we  for  wind  and  rain  ? 
We  are  all  at  home  again. 

in. 

O,  the  weary  days  we  've  wandered 

Vanish  in  the  fireside's  glow ; 
And  the  happy  hours  of  childhood 

Glimmer  back  from  long  ago. 
Storms  may  beat  upon  our  dwelling. 

Light  the  lamps  of  love  and  home. 
We  are  all  once  more  together, 

Never,  never  more  to  roam. 

What  care  we  for  wind  and  rain  ? 
We  are  all  at  home  again. 


A  SPBING-GBOWL. 


WOULD  you  think  it  ?     Spring  is  come. 
Winter  's  paid  his  passage  home  ; 
Packed  his  ice-box,  —  gone  —  half-way 
To  the  Arctic  Pole,  they  say. 
But  I  know  the  old  ruffian  still 
Skulks  about  from  hill  to  hill, 
Where  his  freezing  footprints  cling, 
Though  't  is  Spring  ? 

n. 

Heed  not  what  the  poets  sing 
In  their  rhymes  about  the  Spring. 
Spring  was  once  a  potent  queen, 
Eobed  in  blossoms  and  in  green. 
That,  I  think,  was  long  ago. 
Is  she  buried  in  the  snow, 
Deaf  to  all  our  carolling,  — 

Poor  old  Spring  ? 


198  A   SPRING-GROWL. 

HI. 

Windows  rattling  in  the  night ; 
Shutters  that  you  thought  were  tight 
Slamming  back  against  the  wall ; 
Ghosts  of  burglars  in  the  hall ; 
Eoaring  winds  and  groaning  trees  ; 
Chimneys  shuddering  in  the  breeze ; 
Doleful  dumps  in  everything, — 
Such  is  Spring. 

IV. 

Sunshine  trying  hard  awhile 
On  the  bare  brown  fields  to  smile ; 
Frozen  ruts  and  slippery  walks  ; 
Gray  old  crops  of  last  year's  stalks  ; 
Shivering  hens  and  moping  cows  ; 
Curdled  sap  in  leafless  boughs 
Nipped  by  Winter's  icy  sting,  — 
Such  is  Spring. 

v. 

Yet  the  other  day  I  heard 
Something  that  I  thought  a  bird. 
He  was  brave  to  come  so  soon ; 
But  his  pipes  were  out  of  tune, 


A   SPRING-GROWL.  199 

And  he  chirped  as  if  each  note 
Came  from  flannels  round  his  throat, 
And  he  had  no  heart  to  sing,  — 
Ah,  poor  thing  ! 

VI. 

If  there  comes  a  little  thaw, 
Still  the  air  is  chill  and  raw. 
Here  and  there  a  patch  of  snow, 
Dirtier  than  the  ground  below, 
Dribbles  down  a  marshy  flood ; 
Ankle-deep  you  stick  in  mud 
In  the  meadows,  —  while  you  sing, 
"  This  is  Spring." 

VII. 

Are  there  violets  in  the  sod, 
Crocuses  beneath  the  clod  ? 
When  will  Boreas  give  us  peace  ? 
Or  has  Winter  signed  a  lease 
For  another  month  of  frost, 
Leaving  Spring  to  pay  the  cost  ? 
For  it  seems  he  still  is  king, 

Though  'tis  Spring. 


STATEX  ISLAND,  March  26,  1873. 


WAITING  BY  THE  SEA. 


ALONE  upon  the  windy  hills 
I  stand  and  face  the  open  sea, 

And  drink  the  southern  breeze  which  fills 
The  sails  that  bring  my  love  to  me. 

IV  r  out  the  shores  and  woodlands  reach, 
Till  lost  in  mists  of  pearly  gray, 

Or  crossed  by  lines  of  yellow  beach, 
And  flashing  breakers  far  away. 

Alone  upon  the  windy  slopes 
I  watch  the  long  blue  level  wall 

Of  ocean,  where  my  winged  hopes 
Like  fluttering  sea-birds  fly  and  call. 


AVA1TING   BY   THE    SEA.  201 

0  happy  pilot-boats  that  dance 
Across  the  sparkling  miles  of  sea  ! 

0  greet  her,  should  ye  hail  by  chance 
The  ship  that  bears  my  love  to  me  ! 

And  does  she  lean  upon  the  deck 

And  strain  her  eyes  till  land  appears, 

As  I  to  catch  the  white-winged  speck 
That  clears  away  my  gathering  fears  ? 

By  long  low  beach  and  wooded  crag 
The  crowded  sails  go  glimmering  past  ; 

But  none  that  bear  the  well-known  flag 
And  pennon  streaming  from  the  mast. 

0  ocean,  wrinkling  in  the  sun  ! 

O  breeze  that  blowest  from  the  sea ! 
Waft  into  port,  ere  day  is  done, 
My  love,  my  life,  again  to  me ! 

She  comes,  she  comes  !     I  see  the  sails 
Like  rounded  sea-shells  full  and  white. 

1  hear  the  booming  gun  that  hails 

The  coming  of  my  heart's  delight. 


202  WAITING   BY   THE    SEA. 

I  hear  the  sailors'  distant  song ; 

They  crowd  the  deck  in  bustling  glee ; 
And  there  is  one  amid  the  throng 

Who  waves  a  rosy  scarf  to  me. 

The  sun  has  set ;  the  air  is  still ; 

The  twilight  reddens  o'er  the  sea ; 
The  full  moon  rises  o'er  the  hill ; 

Eut  joy  like  sunrise  shines  for  me. 

1873. 


SHELLING  PEAS, 

A   PASTORAL. 

JN  0,  Tom,  you  may  banter  as  much  as  you  please ; 

But  it 's  all  the  result  of  the  shelliu'  them  peas. 

"Why,  I  had  n't  the  slightest  idea,  do  you  know, 

That  so  serious  a  matter  would  out  of  it  grow. 

I  tell  you  what,  Tom,  I  do  feel  kind  o'  scared. 

I  dreamed  it,  I  hoped  it,  but  never  once  dared 

To  breathe  it  to  her.     And  besides,  I  must  say 

I  always  half  fancied  she  fancied  Jim  Wray. 

So  I  felt  kind  o'  stuffy  and  proud,  and  took  care 

To  be  out  o'  the  way  when  that  feller  was  there 

A  danglin'  around  ;  for  thinks  I,  if  it 's  him 

That  Katy  likes  best,  what 's  the  use  lookin'  grim 

At  Katy  or  Jim,  —  for  it 's  all  up  with  me  ; 

And  I  'd  better  jest  let  'em  alone,  do  you  see  ? 

But  you  would  n't  have  thought  it ;  that  girl  never  keered 

The  snap  of  a  pea-pod  for  Jim's  bushy  beard. 

Well,  here  's  how  it  was.     I  was  takin'  some  berries 


204  SHELLING    PEAS. 

Across  near  her  garden,  to  leave  at  Aunt  Mary's  ; 

When,  jest  as  I  come  to  the  old  elhmi-tree, 

All  alone  in  the  shade,  that  June  morriin',  was  she  — 

Shellin'  peas  —  setting  there  on  a  garden  settee. 

I  swan,  she  was  handsomer  'n  ever  I  seen, 

Like  a  rose  all  alone  in  a  moss-work  o'  green. 

Well,  there  was  n't  no  use  ;  so,  says  I,  I  '11  jest  linger 

And  gaze  at  her  here,  hid  behind  a  syringa. 

But  she  heard  me  a  movin',  and  looked  a  "bit  frightem  d. 

So  I  come  and  stood  near  her.     I  fancied  she  brightened 

And  seemed  sort  o'  pleased.     So  I  hoped  she  was  well ; 

And  —  would  she  allow  me  to  help  her  to  shell? 

For  she  sot  with  a  monstrous  big  dish  full  of  peas 

Jest  fresh  from  the  vines,  which  she  held  on  her  knees. 

"  May  I  help  you,  Miss  Katy  ?  "  says  I.    "  As  you  please, 

Mr.  Baxter,"  says  she.     "  But  you  're  busy,  I  guess  " 

Glancin'  down  at  my  berries,  and  then  at  her  dress. 

"  Not  the  least.     There  's  no  hurry.     It  ain't  very  late  ; 

And  I  'd  rather  be  here,  and  Aunt  Mary  can  wait." 

So  I  sot  down  beside  her ;  an'  as  nobody  seen  us, 

I  jest  took  the  dish,  and  I  held  it  between  us. 

And  I  thought  to  myself  I  must  make  an  endeavor 

To  know  which  she  likes,  Jim  or  me,  now  or  never  ! 

But  I  could  n't  say  nothin'.     We  sot  there  and  held 

That  green  pile  between  us.     She  shelled,  and  I  shelled  ; 


SHELLING    TEAS.  205 

And  pop  went  the  pods  ;  and  I  could  n't  help  thinkin' 
Of  popping-  the  question.     A  kind  of  a  sinkin' 
Come  over  my  spirits  ;  till  at  lust  I  got  out, 
"  Mister  Wray  's  an  admirer  of  yours,  I  've  no  doubt 
You  see  him  quite  often."     "  Well,  sometimes.    But  why 
And  what  if  I  did  ?  "     "  0,  well,  nothiu',"  says  I. 
"  Some  folks  says  you  're  goin'  to  marry  him,  though." 
"  Who  says  so  ?  "  says  she  ;  and  she  flared  up  like  tow 
When  you  throw  in  a  match.     "  Well,  some  folks  that  [ 

know." 

"  'T  ain't  true,  sir,"  says  she.    And  she  snapped  a  big  pod, 
Till  the  peas,  right  and  left,  flew  all  over  the  sod. 
Then  I  looked  in  her  eyes,  but  she  only  looked  down 
With  a  blush  that  she  tried  to  chase  oft'  with  a  frown. 
"  Then  it 's  somebody  else  you  like  better,"  says  I. 
"  No,   it  ain't  though,"    says  she ;  and    I    thought   she 

would  cry. 

Then  I  tried  to  say  somethin' ;  it  stuck  in  my  throat, 
And  all  my  idees  were  upset  and  afloat. 
But  I  said  i  knew  somebody  'd  loved  her  so  long  — 
Though  he  never  had  told  her  —  with  feelin's  so  strong 
lie  was  ready  to  die  at  her  feet,  if  she  chosed, 
If  she  only  could  love  him  !  —  I  hardly  supposed 
That  she  cared  for  him  much,  though.     And  so,  Tom,  — 

and  so,  — 


206  SHELLING   PEAS. 

For  I  thought  that  I  saw  how  the  matter  would  go,  — 

With  my  heart  all  a  jumpin'  with  rapture,  I  found 

I  had  taken  her  hand,  and  my  arm  was  around 

Her  waist  ere  I  knew  it,  and  she  with  her  head 

On  my  shoulder,  —  but  no,  I  won't  tell  what  she  said. 

The  birds  sang  above  us  ;  our  secret  was  theirs  ; 

The  leaves  whispered  soft  in  the  wandering  airs. 

I  tell  you  the  world  was  a  new  world  to  me. 

I  can  talk  of  these  things  like  a  book  now,  you  see. 

But  the  peas  ?     Ah,  the  peas  in  the  pods  were  a  mess 

Rather  bigger  than  those  that  we  shelled,  you  may  guess. 

It 's  risky  to  set  with  a  girl  shellin'  peas. 

You  may  tease  me  now,  Tom,  just  as  much  as  you  please. 


LOUIS  NAPOLEON. 


feO,  he  is  gone,  —  the  shadow  of  a  name  ! 
Long  since  we  saw  the  dull,  expiring  flame 
Flare  in  its  socket.     What  he  was  and  did 
From  Europe  and  the  world  cannot  be  hid ; 
The  crowned  adventurer,  who  set  his  heel 
Upon  a  people,  and  with  clamps  of  steel, 
Called  law  and  order,  fastened  deep  and  broad 
A  throne  sustained  by  perjury,  force,  and  fraud. 

Look  back  a  few  short  years,  and  ask  what  gain, 
What  boon,  to  Europe  was  Napoleon's  reign. 
"  He  fought  for  Italy,"  you  say.     'T  is  true. 
But  then  he  always  held  himself  in  view,  — 
Himself  first,  France's  strength  and  glory  next. 
Austria  must  needs  be  humbled  ;  England  vexed, 
Left  playing  second,  with  her  eyes  askance, 
Droning  a  surly  moral  bass,  while  France 


208  LOUIS   NAPOLEON. 

Led  on  the  battle  orchestra.     Her  name 

Must  glow  anew  with  the  old  chivalric  flame ; 

And  he  —  the  man  of  destiny  —  the  head 

Of  the  new  movement.     So  his  armies  bled 

In  Lombardy.     He,  with  his  brave  Zonaves, 

Would  do  no  thing,  and  least  this  thing,  by  halves. 

All  went  like  clock-work.     France  was  ever  great 

In  system.     But,  unluckily,  the  gate 

That  led  to  Venice  was  too  strongly  barred. 

Yes,  as  you  say,  it  was  a  trifle  hard 

For  the  orchestral  leader  to  plunge  o'er 

Those  quadrilateral  bars  through  smoke  and  gore  ; 

To  see  his  brave  men  —  those  swift  living  notes 

In  his  heroic  symphony  —  their  coats* 

Stained  deep  in  Solferino's  dust  and  blood, 

Marshalled  again  to  serve  as  naught  but  food 

For  powder,  —  faces  gashed  and  burnt  and  blurred 

By  bayonet,  ball,  and  fever.     So  the  word 

Was  given  to  change  the  programme ;  for  the  war 

Was  swelling  to  a  size  too  great  by  far, 

Involving  interests  which  were  not  "  France." 

Further  he  would  not,  could  not  now  advance, 

Though  Freedom  stood  dismayed.     A  treaty  straight 

Was  signed,  before  the  act  should  be  too  late  : 

Sardinia  keeping  all  that  she  had  won ; 


LOUIS   NAPOLEON.  209 

But  Venice,  pining  for  the  air  and  sun, 

And  stretched  upon  her  Austrian  dungeon-floor, 

Must  needs  be  left  bound  closer  than  before. 

Hard,  when  her  prison  was  about  to  ope, 

To  bolt  it  in  her  face,  to  kill  her  hope  ! 

But  France,  and  Europe,  and  that  blessed  fiction, 

"  Balance  of  power,"  had  wrought  more  cool  conviction. 

So  Villafranca's  treaty  closed  the  lid 

Of  the  Pandora-box,  and  Hope  was  left  ; 

And  what  the  lion  failed  in,  the  fox  did. 

For  Francis  Joseph  must  have  been  bereft 

Of  brains,  to  be  outwitted  there  and  then,  — 

His  sails  struck  windless  by  a  stroke  o'  the  pen ; 

His  long-famed  cunning  all  outdone  and  shamed, 

That  he  consented  to  a  treaty  framed 

Purposely  vague,  to  favor  Italy, 

Leaving  an  open  door  he  did  not  see. 

"  Bring  the  Dukes  back,"  forsooth  ;  but  nothing  said, 

Should  the  good  people  choose  to  rule  instead. 

This  credit  then  he  takes,  —  Napoleon 

Suffered  the  Revolution  to  move  on  ; 

He  could  not  interfere  to  keep  the  kings 

When  the  unfettered  countries  spread  their  wings. 

Prudently  stood  aside,  when  down  the  slope 


210  LOUIS   NAPOLEON. 

The  great  machine  rolled,  freighted  with  the  hope 

Of  nations  who  with  shouts  of  joy  beheld 

(By  nature's  law  of  gravity  impelled) 

The  car  of  state,  so  long  a  stranded  thing 

On  lonely  heights,  the  plaything  of  a  king, 

Now  move  on  common  roads  where  brethren  meet 

In  friendly  intercourse  and  converse  sweet. 

But  never  with  a  finger- tip  did  he 

E'er  thrust  aside  superfluous  tyranny. 

Enough  for  him  that  kings  were  kings ;  this  fact 

Pledged  him  to  keep  their  right  divine  intact. 

Magician  though  he  was,  he  raised  a  ghost 
He  could  not  lay,  and  made  this  fault  a  boast ; 
Built  up  a  throne  veneered  and  varnished  well 
With  democratic  gloss,  a  glittering  shell 
That  feared  the  people's  touch,  and  ill  could  bear 
The  slightest  breeze  of  Freedom's  common  air; 
While  he  who  filched  the  empire,  like  a  thief, 
Proclaimed  himself  the  nation's  chosen  chief. 

Imperial  author,  writing  special  pleas 
For  liberal  tyranny  and  a  conquered  peace,  — 
Himself  his  only  judge,  he  from  their  nooks 
Drove  out  the  critic  rats  that  gnawed  his  books. 


LOUIS   NAPOLEON.  211 

Long-armed  policeman,  smothering  Freedom's  fires  ; 
Spider-like  sitting  in  a  web  of  wires 
Netting  all  Europe  from  his  central  ring ; 
Throttling  the  editorial  gnats  whose  sting 
Or  buzz  protests  against  the  bands  that  wind 
The  despot's  cobwebs  round  the  free-born  mind ; 
Yet  loudly  boasting  that  his  power  relies 
Upon  the  votes  of  his  dear  tangled  flies. 

How  long  he  sat,  —  this  Caesar  of  the  stage, 
This  bold,  pretending  patron  of  the  age  ! 
Muzzled  the  press,  yet  bade  the  people  think ; 
Knelt  to  the  Pope,  but  gave  the  crowd  a  wink ; 
Now  capped  a  Cardinal,  now  endowed  a  school ; 
Permitted  suffrage,  under  iron  rule ; 
Gave  wings  to  trade,  but  clogged  all  daring  thought, 
Counting  all  counsel  but  his  own  as  naught ; 
Put  new  wine  in  old  bottles,  best  in  worst, 
And  clamped  them  round  with  iron,  lest  they  burst ; 
Forced  two  extremes  to  marry,  last  with  first ; 
"VVed  light  to  darkness,  and  misnamed  the  brood 
Born  of  the  union,  France's  highest  good. 

Professing  friendship  for  our  western  main, 
He  hoped  to  split  our  continent  in  twain ; 


212  LOUIS   NAPOLEON. 

And  while  our  back  is  turned  to  grasp  our  foe, 
Drives  in  an  Austrian  wedge  at  Mexico ; 
Finds  he  has  bungled  sadly,  and  would  fain 
Withdraw  poor  Maximilian  again. 
Would  like  to  recall  his  ^forces  too  from  Borne, 
But  fears  the  hubbub  of  his  priests  at  home. 
So,  pledged  to  God  and  Mammon,  he  prolongs 
The  strife  with  chaos,  smiles  on  rights  and  wrongs ; 
The  Pope's  non  possumus  most  blandly  hears, 
And  leaves  poor  Eome  in  misery  and  in  tears ; 
Prates  loud  of  nations'  rights,  and  ten  times  o'er 
Opens  and  shuts  a  people's  prison-door. 

Now,  time  brings  round  its  retributions  strange. 
O'er  Europe's  face  there  sweeps  a  mighty  change. 
Now  Germany  compact  and  bristling  stands 
Guarding  her  blue  Rhine  from  the  invader's  hands. 
Now  Venice  sets  her  sea-pearl  in  the  ring 
Worn  by  young  Italy's  victorious  king. 
Now  Eome,  e'en  Eome,  must  add  her  eternal  fame 
To  a  throne  upborne  by  Garibaldi's  name ; 
Unguarded  by  her  Gallic  sentinel, 
She  loosely  holds  the  keys  of  heaven  and  hell ; 
Her  Pope,  whose  thunders  rattled  west  and  east, 
Changed  by  a  pen-scrawl  to  a  harmless  priest. 


LOUIS   NAPOLEON.  213 

And  lie,  the  mighty  Emperor,  whose  word 

Held  Europe  spell-bound,  in  war's  thunders  heard 

A  voice  that  overruled  his  subtile  tricks, 

His  blunders  and  his  shuffling  politics, 

His  sham  democracy,  his  hard  decrees, 

His  double-dealings  and  diplomacies. 

These  brought  their  sure  results,  —  ambition  checked, 

A  tarnished  splendor,  and  an  empire  wrecked, 

And  that  distrust  through  every  heart  that  crept, 

At  rights  withheld  and  promises  unkept ; 

While  downward  sank  his  star,  unmourned  of  all 

Who  hail  the  nation's  rise,  the  usurper's  fall ; 

Till  death  has  swept  away  the  last  frail  chance 

That  cheered  the  friends  of  tyranny  in  France. 


BY  THE  SHOEE  OF  THE  EIVEE. 


1 HEOUGH  the  gray  willows  the  bleak  winds  are  raving 
Here  on  the  shore  with  its  driftwood  and  sands. 

Over  the  river  the  lilies  are  waving, 

Bathed  in  the  sunshine  of  Orient  lands. 
Over  the  river,  the  wide,  dark  river, 
Spring-time  and  summer  are  blooming  forever. 

Here  all  alone  on  the  rocks  I  am  sitting, 

Sitting  and  waiting,  —  my  comrades  all  gone,  — 

Shadows  of  mystery  drearily  flitting 

Over  the  surf  with  its  sorrowful  moan,  — 
Over  the  river,  the  strange,  cold  river. 
Ah,  must  I  wait  for  the  boatman  forever  ? 

Wife  and  children  and  friends  were  around  me ; 
Labor  and  rest  were  as  wings  to  my  soul ; 


BY  THE  SHORE  OF  THE  RIVER.     215 

Honor  and  love  were  the  laurels  that  crowned  me ; 
Little  I  recked  how  the  dark  waters  roll. 
But  the  deep  river,  the  gray  misty  river, 
All  that  I  lived  for  has  taken  forever. 

Silently  came  a  "black  boat  o'er  the  billows  ; 

Stealthily  grated  the  keel  on  the  sand ; 
Rustling  footsteps  were  heard  through  the  willows ; 

There  the  dark  boatman  stood  Avaving  his  hand, 

Whispering,  "  I  come,  —  from  the  shadowy  river  ; 

She  who  is  dearest  must  leave  thee  forever  !  " 

Suns  that  were  brightest  and  skies  that  were  bluest 
Darkened  and  paled  in  the  message  he  bore. . 

Year  after  year  went  the  fondest,  the  truest, 

Following  that  beckoning  hand  to  the  shore. 
Down  to  the  river,  the  cold,  grim  river, 
Over  whose  waters  they  vanished  forever. 

Yet  not  in  visions  of  grief  have  I  wandered  ; 

Still  have  I  toiled,  though  my  ardors  have  flown. 
Labor  is  manhood  ;  and  life  is  but  squandered 

Dreaming  vague  dreams  of  the  future  alone. 

Yet  from  the  tides  of  the  mystical  river 

Voices  of  spirits  are  whispering  ever. 


216  BY   THE   SHORE   OF  THE   RIVER. 

Lonely  arid  old,  in  the  dusk  I  am  waiting, 

Till  the  dark  boatman  with  soft  muffled  oar 

Glides  o'er  the  waves,  and  I  hear  the  keel  grating,  — 
See  the  dim  beckoning  hand  on  the  shore, 
Wafting  me  over  the  welcoming  river 
To  gardens  and  homes  that  are  shining  forever  ! 


THE  AMERICAN   PANTHEON. 


W  HEN  Rufus  Griswold  built  his  Pantheon  wide, 
And  set  a  hundred  poets  round  its  walls, 

Did  he  believe  their  statues  would  abide 
The  tests  of  time  upon  their  pedestals  ? 

A  hundred  poets  !     Some  in  Parian  stone, 
Perchance  ;  and  some  in  brittle  plaster  cast ; 

And  some  mere  busts,  whose  names  are  hardly  known 
Dii  minores  of  a  voiceless  past. 

Time  was  when  many  there  so  neatly  niched 
Held  each  within  his  court  a  sovereign  sway  ; 

Each  in  his  turn  his  little  world  enriched, 
The  ephemeral  poet-laureate  of  his  day. 

Ah,  what  is  fame  ?     Star  after  star  goes  out,  — 
Lost  Pleiads  Jn  the  firmament  of  truth  ; 

Our  kings  discrowned  ere  died  the  distant  shout 
That  hailed  the  coronation  of  their  youth. 
10 


218  THE   AMERICAN   PANTHEON. 

Few  are  the  world's  great  singers.     Far  apart, 
Thrilling  with  love,  yet  wrapped  in  solitude, 

•They  sit  communing  with  the  common  heart 
That  binds  the  race  in  human  brotherhood. 

A  wind  of  heaven  o'er  their  musing  breathes, 
And  wakes  them  into  verse,  —  as  April  turns 

The  frozen  sods  to  violets,  and  unsheathes 
The  forest  flowers  amid  the  leaves  and  ferns. 

And  we  who  dare  not  wear  the  immortal  crown 
And  singing  robes,  at  least  may  hear  and  dream, 

While  strains  from  prophet  lips  come  floating  down ; 
Inspired  by  them  to  sing  some  humbler  theme. 

Nay,  nothing  can  be  lost  whose  living  stems 
Hooted  in  truth  sprang  up  to  beauty's  flower.  • 

The  spangles  of  the  stage  may  flout  the  gems 
On  queenly  breasts,  but  only  for  an  hour. 

The  fashion  of  the  time  may  claim  its  own ; 

The  soul  whose  vision  custom  cannot'bar, 
The  heart  that  trusts  its  natural  pulse,  alone 

Can  hope  to  light  the  ages,  like  a  star. 


THE   AMERICAN   PANTHEON.  219 

O,  not  for  fame  the  poet  of  to-day 

Should  hunger.    Though  the  world  his  music  scorn, 
The  after-world  may  hear,  —  as  mountains  gray 

Echo  from  depths  unseen  the  Alpine  horn. 

So  while  around  this  Pantheon  wide  I  stray, 
Where  poets  from  Freneau  to  Fay  are  set, 

1  doubt  not  each  in  turn  has  sung  some  lay 
The  world  will  not  be  willing  to  forget. 

For  who  in  barren  rhyme  and  rhythm  could  spend 
The  costly  hours  the  muse  alone  should  claim, 

Did  not  some  finer  thought,  some  nobler  end, 
Breathe  ardors  sweeter  than  poetic  fame  ? 


IN  THE  FOEEST  OF  FONTAINEBLEAU, 


1  HE  lights  and  shadows  of  long  ago 
In  the  grand  old  Forest  of  Fontainebleau 
Go  with  me  still  wherever  I  go. 

I  range  my  pictures  around  my  room, 
Won  from  the  forest's  light  and  gloom ; 
Not  yet  shall' they  sink  to  an  auction's  doom. 

They  wake  me  again  to  the  painter's  moods ; 
They  take  me  back  to  the  wonderful  woods, 
The  wild,  dream-haunted  solitudes. 

They  come  as  Memory  waves  her  wand ; 
And  I  think  of  the  days  when  with  busy  hand 
I  painted  alone  in  the  forest  grand. 

I  see  the  old  gnarled  oak-trees  spread 
Their  boughs  and  foliage  over  my  head. 
About  the  mossy  rocks  I  tread. 


IN   THE  FOREST   OF  FONTAINEBLEAU.       221 

Under  the  beeches  of  Fontainebleau, 
In  the  green  dim  dells  of  the  Bas-Breau, 
Mid  ferns  and  laurel-tufts  I  go  ; 

Or  up  on  the  hills,  while  the  woods  beneath 
Circle  me  round  like  a  giant-wreath, 
Plunge  knee-deep  in  the  purple  heath ; 

Then  down  to  a  patch  of  furzy  sand, 
Where  the  white  umbrella  and  easel  stand, 
And  the  rocks  lie  picturesque  and  grand. 

The  mellow  autumn  with  fold  on  fold 
Has  dressed  the  woods  with  a  bronzy  gold, 
And  scarlet  scarfs  of  a  wealth  untold. 

The  tall  gray  spotted  beeches  rise 

And  seem  to  touch  the  unclouded  skies, 

And  round  their  tops  with  clamorous  cries 

The  rooks  are  wheeling  to  aud  fro  ; 

And  down  on  the  brown  leaf-matting  below 

The  lights  and  the  shadows  come  and  go. 


222   IN  THE  FOREST  OF  FONTAINEBLEAU. 

0  calm,  deep  days,  when  labor  moved 
With  wings  of  joy  to  the  tasks  beloved, 
And  art  its  own  best  guerdon  proved  ! 

For  such  it  was,  when  long  ago 

1  sat  in  my  leafy  studio 

In  the  dear  old  Forest  of  Fontainebleau. 


A  DAY  OF  MEMOEIES, 


is  the  road,  up  through  the  corn  and  clover; 
And  yonder,  the  first  turning,  is  the  lane. 
And  that  's  the  house  ;  they  've  painted  it  all  over, 
So  white,  I  scarce  should  know  the  old  place  again. 

Yet  the  same  dear  old  house.     How  well  I  know  it ! 

Though  changed,  and  with  another  face,  like  me. 
'T  was  here  love  taught  me  first  to  be  a  poet,  — 

Or  think  I  was,  the  rhyming  flowed  so  free. 

Still  round  the  porch  the  honeysuckles  clamber, 
But  thicker  grown,  where  hand  in  hand  we  stood, 

And  watched  the  crimson  clouds  and  sky  of  amber 
Grow  gray  and  dusk  beyond  the  distant  wood. 

That  was  her  window.  There  I  serenaded 
Once  in  the  moonlight  of  a  night  in  June. 

The  verses  were  my  own  ;  I  sang  unaided, 
Save  by  my  light  guitar,  my  summer  tune. 


A  DAY    OF   MEMORIES. 

All,  what  warm  sonnets  did  my  muse  then  scatter 
Like  wild  and  golden  fruitage  from  a  tree ; 

And  knew  that  naught  I  wrote  or  sang  could  flatter 
One  who  outshone  all  pearls  of  poesy  ! 

And  she  was  won ;  and  we  were  pledged  forever ; 

And  yet  were  parted,  —  why,  I  hardly  know. 
Some  fate,  but  dimly  seen,  befell  to  sever 

Two  who  seemed  one  so  many  years  ago. 

The  dear  old  place  !  the  landscape  still  unaltered,  — 
The  stream  below,  the  cedar-trees  above ; 

The  same  stone-wall  and  lilacs  where  I  faltered 
The  first  words,  strange  and  sweet,  of  boyish  love. 

Here,  up  the  lane,  the  broad  elms  still  are  growing, 
Each  bough  unscarred,  but  larger  than  of  yore. 

Yet  yonder,  where  that  stranger  now  is  mowing, 
I  see  they  've  felled  my  favorite  sycamore. 

How  could  they  do  it !     In  its  shade  we  parted ; 

Or  was  it  wrecked  by  storm,  or  lightning  blaze  ? 
Like  those  who  kissed  their  last  there,  broken-hearted,— 

At  least  they  thought  so,  in  those  tender  days. 


A   DAY    OF   MEMORIES.  225 

And  yonder  was  a  stately  beech-tree,  slanting 

Across  the  stream.     There  once  1  carved  her  name. 

'T  is  gone,  and  flags  and  water-weeds  are  flaunting 
Along  the  brookside,  changed,  yet  still  the  same. 

That  parting  was  like  death.     But  youth  's  elastic  ; 

And  hers  recovered  ;  so  did  mine  at  last. 
The  world  is  wide,  and  human  hearts  too  plastic 

To  harden  in  an  unrelenting  past. 

And  far  apart  her  path  and  mine  diverging, 

Each  with  its  separate  cares  and  hopes  and  dreams, 

Long  since  was  stilled  young  love's  tumultuous  surging, 
Long  since  new  ties  have  dimmed  those  early  gleams. 

And  yet,  though  wounds  will  heal,  the  scars  forever 

Cling  to  the  flesh  that  quivered  once,  now  still  ; 
And  there  are  times  when  boyhood's  pain  and  fever 
wake  aain  with  momentar    thrill. 


So,  while  I  roam  about  these  well-known  places, 
Haunted  by  visions  all  so  sadly  sweet, 

Those  tender  tones  of  old,  those  mystic  graces, 
Seem  to  prelude  the  flying  of  her  feet. 

10*  o 


226  A   DAY    OF   MEMORIES. 

Those  voices  come  no  more  but  in  my  dreaming, 
Too  vague  to  take  a  shape  in  uttered  words. 

Those  footsteps  in  a  world  remote  are  gleaming, 
Mine  only  when  I  touch  the  poet's  chords. 


THE  GUEST. 


1 HOU  slialt  go  alone  and  sad. 

Men  will  deem  thy  raptures  vain, 
And  thy  products  poor  and  bad, 

And  thy  progress  change,  not  gain. 

When  thou  meet'st  another  man, 
Thou  from  him  and  he  from  thee 

Shall  be  shut  as  by  a  ban, 
Save  in  words  of  courtesy. 

Symbols  thou  shalt  deem  uncouth 
To  his  creed  are  dear  and  fair ; 

What  to  thee  is  trust  and  truth 
Seems  to  him  but  empty  air. 

Thou  and  he  are  veiled  about 
By  two  webs  of  time  and  space, 

Spun  from  films  of  faith  and  doubt, 
Warped  and  woofed  across  each  face. 


228  THE   GUEST. 

Only  on  the  central  ground 
Paved  by  character  and  deeds 

Shall  the  interchange  be  found 
Spirit  touching  spirit  needs. 

If  thou  strivest  much  to  love 
What  the  multitude  delights, 

Thy  unwilling  guest  shall  prove 
Darkener  of  thy  own  true  lights. 

In  thy  home-spun  garb  and  place, 
In  the  castle  of  thy  thought, 

Heed  not  every  stranger  face 
Peering  in,  to  tell  thee  naught. 

But  when  flits  a  spirit  nigh, 
Howsoever  mean  his  state, 

If  kindred  light  illumes  his  eye, 
See  that  he  passes  not  thy  gate. 

Him  thou  shalt  house,  and  entertain, 

Till  thou  hast  made  his  love  thy  gain. 


OCTOBER, 


1 IIROUGH  golden  gates  of  leaves,  through  columns  gray 

Of  elms  and  maples  old,  whose  boughs  enlace 

In  bright  cathedral  arches  overhead, 

Emvreathed  with  scarlet  vines  ;  through  bosky  tufts 

Of  underbrush,  and  willows  still  so  green 

Along  the  hidden  brooks,  they  seem  to  hold 

The  summer  snared,  nor  heed  the  threatening  frost, 

The  calm  October  days  pass  one  by  one, 

Smiling  in  rosy  sunsets,  ere  they  flit 

Forever  from  the  earth.     How  silently 

They  march,  timed  to  the  crickets'  ceaseless  chirp 

Through  the  still  noon,  while  tall  flowers  mark  their  path, — 

Blue  succory,  purple  asters,  golden-rod, 

Wild  yellow  stars,  and  lonely  cardinal-flowers 

Whose  crimson  petals  light  the  sluggish  streams. 

A  clear  and  wholesome  spirit  in  the  air 

Touches  the  earth  and  all  earth's  greenest  robes 


230  OCTOBER. 

With  change  so  gradual  we  can  feel  no  loss 
Of  life,  but  only  mellower,  richer  hues,  — 
With  music  more  pathetic,  as  the  wind 
Harps  through  the  woods,  and  red  and  yellow  leaves 
Flutter  to  earth,  and  whirl  in  huddled  heaps. 
So  may  our  little  lives,  their  sap  withdrawn, 
After  their  long,  still  summers,  tossed,  perchance, 
At  times,  by  thunder-gusts  or  drenched  in  rains 
Of  tears,  pass  peacefully,  complete  in  years 
And  in  that  wisdom  years  alone  can  bring ; 
And,  having  well  fulfilled  their  allotted  work, 
Sink  to  their  rest,  or  to  their  life  beyond ! 

1872. 


TO  A  HALF-FEIEND, 


HOW  well  I  know  the  secret  spell  to  turn 
Your  best  good-will  to  me,  — 

The  delicate  untruth  could  I  but  learn 
Of  well-bred  flattery. 

Just  to  o'erstep  the  plain  sincerity 
Of  friend  to  friend,  no  more  ; 

Only  to  hint,  "  Your  truth  is  truth  to  me, 
No  higher  and  no  lower  "  ; 

Seeming  to  prize  your  quality  and  gift, 
Though  not  on  praise  intent, 

But  on  the  current  of  our  talk  to  drift 
Into  a  smooth  assent; 


232  TO   A   HALF-FRIEND. 

To  accept  without  demur  or  differing  eyes 
The  half-truth  of  your  thought, 

And  hide  my  protest  in  a  compromise 
By  dumb  good-nature  taught ; 

To  linger  on  your  chosen  plot  of  ground, 

As  if  I  too  would  choose  it ; 
To  know  a  richer  realm  lies  all  around 

Your  fence,  and  yet  refuse  it ; 

To  fear  to  disagree,  though  what  you  say 

Savors  of  sect  and  clan ; 
My  fortress  of  conviction  to  betray 

And  yield  life's  cherished  plan  ; 

To  slight  the  solemn  conscience  pressing  down 

Upon  my  private  faith  ; 
To  wear  the  decorous  fashion  of  the  town  ; 

To  hear  some  shadowy  wraith, 

Instead  of  what  I  know  to  be  myself, 

Utter  opinions  squared 
To  social  rules,  —  a  poor,  unreal  elf 

Consenting  to  be  snared, 


TO   A   HALF-FRIEND. 


233 


And  playing  out  a  graceful  pantomime 

•    Where  earnest  words  are  naught, 

To  catch  the  easy  plaudits  of  the  time, 

But  hide  my  dearest  thought ;  — 

Thus  might  I  win  you  soon  to  be  my  friend, 

Now  half  a  friend  at  best. 
Yet  none  would  say  I  nattered.     I  but  send 

Some  fractious  thoughts  to  rest. 


MUSIC, 

READ  AT  THE  ANNUAL   DINNER   OF   THE   HARVARD   MUSICAL 
ASSOCIATION,  BOSTON,  JANUARY  28,  1874. 

W  HEN  "  Music,  Heavenly  Maid,"  was  very  young, 

She  did  not  sing  as  poets  say  she  sung. 

Unlike  the  mermaids  of  the  fairy  tales, 

She  paid  but  slight  attention  to  her  scales. 

Besides,  poor  thing  !  she  had  no  instruments 

But  such  as  rude  barbaric  art  invents. 

There  were  no  Steinways  then,  no  Chickerings, 

No  spinnets,  harpsichords,  or  metal  strings  ; 

No  hundred-handed  orchestras,  no  schools 

To  corset  her  in  contrapuntal  rules. 

Some  rude  half-octave  of  a  shepherd's  song, 

Some  childish  strumming  all  the  summer  long 

On  sinews  stretched  across  a  tortoise-shell, 

Such  as  they  say  Apollo  loved  so  well ; 

Some  squeaking  flageolet  or  scrannel  pipe, 

Some  lyre  poetic  of  the  banjo  type,  — 

Such  were  the  means  she  summoned  to  her  aid, 

Prized  as  divine  ;  on  these  she  sang  or  played. 


MUSIC.  235 

Music  was  then  an  infant,  while  she  saw 

Her  sister  arts  full  grown.     Greece  stood  in  awe 

Before  the  Phidian  Jove.     Apelles  drew 

And  Zeuxis  painted.     Marble  temples  "  grew 

As  grows  the  grass  "  ;  and  never  saw  the  sun 

A  statelier  vision  than  the  Parthenon. 

But  she,  the  Muse  who  in  these  latter  days 

Lifts  us  and  floats  us  in  the  golden  haze 

Of  melodies  and  harmonies  divine, 

And  steeps  our  souls  and  senses  in  such  wine 

As  never  Ganymede  nor  Hebe  poured 

For  gods,  when  quaffing  at  the  Olympian  board,  — 

She,  Heavenly  Maid,  must  ply  her  music  thin, 

And  sit  and  thrum  her  tinkling  mandolin, 

Chant  her  rude  staves,  and  only  prophesy 

Her  far-off  days  of  immortality. 

E'en  so  poor  Cinderella,  when  she  cowered 
Beside  her  hearth,  and  saw  her  sisters,  dowered 
With  grace  and  wealth,  go  forth  to  accomplish  all 
Their  haughty  triumphs  at  the  Prince's  ball, 
While  she  in  russet  gown  sat  mournfully 
Singing  her  "  Once  a  king  there  chanced  to  be,'* 
Yet  knows  her  prince  will  come ;  her  splendid  days 
Are  all  foreshadoAved  in  her  dreaming  gaze. 


236  MUSIC. 

Then,  as  the  years  and  centuries  rolled  on, 
Like  Santa-Clauses  they  have  come  and  gone, 
Bringing  all  means  of  utterance  to  the  Muse. 
No  penny-trumpets,  such  as  children  use, 
No  barbarous  Indian  drums,  no  twanging  lutes, 
No  buzzing  Jews-harps,  no  Pandean  flutes, 
Were  stuffed  into  her  stockings,  though  they  hung 
On  Time's  great  chimney,  as  when  she  was  young ; 
But  every  rare  and  costly  instrument 
That  skill  can  fabricate  or  art  invent,  — 
Pianos,  organs,  viols,  horns,  trombones, 
Hautboys,  and  clarinets  with  reedy  tones, 
Boehm-flutes  and  cornets,  bugles,  harps,  bassoons, 
Huge  double-basses,  kettle-drum  half-moons, 
And  every  queer  contrivance  made  for  tunes. 

Through  these  the  master-spirits  round  her  throng, 

And  Europe  rings  with  instruments  and  song. 

Through  these  she  breathes  her  wondrous  symphonies, 

Enchanting  airs,  and  choral  litanies. 

Through  these  she  speaks  the  word  that  never  dies, 

The  universal  language  of  the  skies. 

Around  her  gather  those  who  held  their  art 

To  be  of  life  the  dearest,  noblest  part. 

Bach,  Handel,  Haydn,  and  Mozart  are  there  ; 


MUSIC.  237 

Beethoven,  chief  of  all.     The  southern  air 
Is  ringing  with  Rossini's  birdlike  notes  ; 
About  the  north  more  earnest  music  floats, 
Where  Weber,  Schumann,  Schubert,  Mendelssohn, 
And  long  processions  of  the  lords  of  Tone 
All  come  to  attend  her.     Like  a  queen  enthroned 
She  sits  and  rules  the  realms  she  long  has  owned, 
And  sways  the  willing  sense,  the  aspiring  soul, 
Where  thousands  bow  before  her  sweet  control. 

Ah  !  greater  than  all  words  of  mine  can  say, 
The  heights,  the  depths,  the  glories,  of  that  sway. 
No  mortal  tongue  can  bring  authentic  speech 
Of  that  enchanted  world  beyond  its  reach ; 
No  tongue  but  hers,  when,  lifted  on  the  waves 
Of  Tone  and  Harmony,  beyond  the  graves 
Of  all  we  lose,  we  drift  entranced  away 
Out  of  the  discords  of  the  common  day  ; 
And  she,  the  immortal  goddess,  on  her  breast 
Lulls  us  to  visions  of  a  sweet  unrest, 
Smiles  at  the  tyrannies  of  time  and  space, 
And  folds  us  in  a  mother's  fond  embrace, 
Till,  sailing  on  upon  that  mystic  sea, 
We  feel  that  Life  is  Immortality. 


COMPENSATION, 


lEARS  wash  away  the  atoms  in  the  eye 

That  smarted  for  a  day  ; 
Eain-clouds  that  spoiled  the  splendors  of  the  sky 

The  fields  with  flowers  array. 

No  chamber  of  pain  but  has  some  hidden  door 

That  promises  release  ; 
No  solitude  so  drear  but  yields  its  store 

Of  thought  and  inward  peace. 

No  night  so  wild  but  brings  the  constant  sun 

With  love  and  power  untold  ; 
No  time  so  dark  but  through  its  woof  there  run 

Some  blessed  threads  of  gold. 


COMPENSATION.  239 

And  through  the  long  and  storm-tost  centuries  burn 

In  changing  calm  and  strife 
The  Pharos-lights  of  truth,  where'er  we  turn,  — 

The  unquenched  lamps  of  life. 

0  Love  supreme  !  0  Providence  divine  ! 

What  self-adjusting  springs 
Of  law  and  life,  what  even  scales,  are  thine, 

What  sure-returning  wings 

Of  hopes  and  joys  that  flit  like  birds  away, 

When  chilling  Autumn  blows, 
But  come  again,  long  ere  the  buds  of  May 

Their  rosy  lips  unclose  ! 

What  wondrous  play  of  mood  and  accident 
Through  shifting  days  and  years  ; 

What  fresh  returns  of  vigor  overspent 
In  feverish  dreams  and  fears  ! 

What  wholesome  air  of  conscience  and  of  thought 

When  doubts  and  forms  oppress ; 
What  vistas  opening  to  the  gates  we  sought 

Beyond  the  wilderness ; 


210  COMPENSATION. 

Beyond  the  narrow  cells  where  self-involved, 

*Likc  chrysalids,  we  wait 
The  unknown  births,  the  mysteries  unsolved 

Of  death  and  change  and  fate  ! 

0  Light  divine  !  we  need  no  fuller  test 

That  all  is  ordered  well ; 
We  know  enough  to  trust  that  all  is  best 

Where  Love  and  Wisdom  dwell. 

1874. 


A  BATTLE  OF  THE  ELEMENTS, 


IHE  warring  hosts  of  Winter  and  of  Spring 

Are  hurtling  o'er  the  plains. 
All  night  I  heard  their  battle-clarions  ring, 

And  jar  the  window-panes. 

The  arrowy  sleet  is  rattling  on  the  glass  ; 

The  sky  a  vault  of  stone  ; 
The  untimely  snows  besiege  the  sprouting  grass ; 

The  elm-trees  toss  and  moan. 

Their  swelling  buds  curl  backward  as  they  swing ; 

The  crocus  in  its  sheath 
Listens,  a  watchful  sentinel,  till  Spring 

Shall  melt  the  snow's  last  wreath. 

11  p 


242      A  BATTLE  OF  THE  ELEMENTS. 

The  saddened  robins  flit  through  leafless  trees, 

And  chirp  with  tuneless  voice, 
And  wait  the  conquering  sun,  the  unbinding  breeze; 

They  cannot  yet  rejoice. 

Slowly  the  victor  Spring  her  foe  outflanks, 

And  countermines  his  snows  ; 
Then,  unawares,  along  the  grassy  banks 
•   Her  ambushed  violets  throws. 

Soon  she  will  mask  with  buds  of  fragrant  white 

Her  arsenals  of  thorns, 
And  lift  her  rose-bush  banners  to  the  light 

Of  soul-entrancing  morns. 

Along  the  fields  her  fairy  troops  shall  hide, 

And  conquer  by  their  grace, 
And  shake  their  flowery  crests,  and  far  and  wide 
f  The  surly  frosts  displace ; 

Till  all  the  woods  are  ringing  with  the  glee 

And  prophecy  of  change 
That  melts  the  past  and  sets  the  present  free 

Through  Summer's  perfect  range. 


A  BATTLE  OF  THE  ELEMENTS.      243 

O  flagging  spring  of  Honor  and  of  Truth, 

Shalt  thou  not  victor  be, 
And  bring  again  the  faith  the  nation's  youth 

Made  one  with  Liberty  ? 

Shall  the  new  birth  America  has  known 

Amid  her  battle-throes 
Prove  a  nipped  blossom,  blighted  ere  't  is  blown, 

Or  a  perennial  rose  ? 

April  21,  1874. 


MEMOEIAL  HALL. 


AMID  the  elms  that  interlace 

Bound  Harvard's  grounds  their  branches  tall, 
We  greet  no  walls  of  statelier  grace 

Than  thine,  our  proud  Memorial  Hall ! 

Through  arching  boughs  and  roofs  of  green 
Whose  dappled  lights  and  shadows  lie 

Along  the  turf  and  road,  is  seen 
Thy  noble  form  against  the  sky. 

And  miles  away,  on  fields  and  streams, 
Or  where  the  woods  the  hilltop  crown, 

The  monumental  temple  gleams, 

A  landmark  to  each  neighboring  town. 

Nor  this  alone ;  New  England  knows 

A  deeper  meaning  in  the  pride 
Whose  stately  architecture  shows 

How  Harvard's  children  fought  and  died. 


MEMORIAL   HALL.  245 

Therefore  this  hallowed  pile  recalls 

The  heroes,  young  and  true  and  brave, 

Who  gave  their  memories  to  these  walls, 
Their  lives  to  fill  the  soldier's  grave. 

The  farmer,  as  he  drives  his  team 

To  market  in  the  morn,  afar 
Beholds  the  golden  sunrise  gleam 

Upon  thee,  like  a  glistening  star. 

And  gazing,  he  remembers  well 

Why  stands  yon  tower  so  fair  and  tall. 

///*  sons  perhaps  in  battle  fell ; 

For  him,  too,  shines  Memorial  Hall. 

And  sometimes  as  the  student  glides 
Along  the  winding  Charles,  and  sees 

Across  the  flats  thy  glowing  sides 
Above  the  elms  and  willow-trees, 

Upon  his  oar  he  '11  turn  and  pause, 

Remembering  the  heroic  aims 
Of  those  who  linked  their  country's  cause 

In  deathless  glory  with  their  names. 


246  MEMORIAL   HALL. 

And  as  against  the  moonlit  sky 

The  shadowy  mass  looms  overhead, 

Well  may  we  linger  with  a  sigh 
Beneath  the  tablets  of  the  dead. 

The  snow-drifts  on  thy  roof  shall  wreathe 
Their  crowns  of  virgin  white  for  them ; 

The  whispering  winds  of  summer  breathe 
At  morn  and  eve  their  requiem. 

For  them  the  Cambridge  bells  shall  chime 
Across  the  noises  of  the  town ; 

The  cannon's  peal  recall  their  time 
Of  stern  resolve  and  brief  renown. 

Concord  and  Lexington  shall  still, 
Like  deep  to  deep,  to  Harvard  call ; 

The  tall  gray  shaft  on  Bunker  Hill 
Speak  greetings  to  Memorial  Hall. 

O,  never  may  the  land  forget 
Her  loyal  sons  who  died  that  we 

Might  live,  remembering  still  our  debt, 
The  costly  price  of  Liberty  ! 

CAMBRIDGE,  MASS.,  April,  1874. 


DREAM-LIFE. 

.  "We  are  such  stuff 

As  dreams  are  made  of,  and  our  little  life 
Is  rounded  with  a  sleep." 

LET  me  be  still,  lie  still  and  dream  again, 
And  bind  the  severed  links  of  the  golden  chain 
That  glimmered  through  my  morning  sleep,  but  snapped 
When  at  my  door  you  rapped. 

Breakfast  ?  and  half  past  eight  ?     What 's  that  to  me  ? 
What 's  daylight  ?     What  are  muffins,  toast  and  tea  ? 
"  Market,  and  raining  hard,  and  bills  to  pay," 
I  think  I  heard  you  say. 

Ah,  yes,  this  is  no  dream.     I  must  suppose 
There  are  such  things.     This  is  a  world  of  prose. 
But  I  was  far  away.     How  real  it  seemed  ! 
And  yet  I  only  dreamed. 


248  DREAM-LIFE. 

I  was  a  welcome  and  a  happy  guest 
In  a  brave  palace.     Upward  from  the  west 
Long  shadows  of  the  lingering  afternoon 
In  a  long  day  of  June 

Lay  on  a  lawn.     The  palace  windows  burned 
In  the  red  sunset,  as  I  downward  turned, 
A  group  of  youths  and  maidens  at  my  side, 
Down  to  a  river  wide, 

Upon  whose  waves  the  western  sky  lay  red. 
A  barge  awaited  us ;  and  overhead 
Streamed  rosy  wreaths  of  cloud.     We  sped  along, 
With  joyous  talk  and  song. 

Away,  away  into  a  land  of  light, 
Where  it  was  neither  morn  nor  noon  nor  night, 
But  dream-light  only  ;  and  a  city  stood 
Beyond  a  tropic  wood. 

And  in  the  pathway  to  that  happy  place 
All  was  incessant  change  of  time  and  space, 
With  sudden,  sweet  surprises,  as  we  went 
In  measureless  content. 


DREAM-LIFE.  249 

And  friends,  the  absent  and  the  dead,  were  there  ; 
And  some  we  never  saw,  yet  seemed  to  wear 
The  mingled  traits  of  those  we  used  to  know, 
"Went  passing  to  and  fro 

Through  festive  halls,  through  gardens  strange  and  rare ; 
And  all  were  young,  and  all  were  happy  there. 
How  could  you  wake  me  from  a  dream  of  bliss 
To  such  a  place  as  this  ? 

'T  was  hard  to  leave  that  life  for  one  so  mean, 
For  prose  and  duty  and  the  old  routine 
Of  work.     Yet  now  that  I  am  up  and  dressed, 
I  know  that  this  is  best. 

The  lordly  soul  is  master  of  its  own. 
The  fair  insanities  of  dreams  are  flown, 
They  were  but  moonlight  flashes,  broken  gleams 
Along  its  flowing  streams. 

Another  light  now  shames  the  tinsel  dress 
Of  drifting  fancies  wild  and  rudderless, 
Nor  can  the  night's  dull  jesters  now  impose 
In  Reason's  borrowed  clothes. 
11* 


250  DREAM-LIFE. 

And  as  I  plod  along,  I  know  that  life 
Is  but  the  stuff  from  which  with  toil  and  strife 
We  weave  our  robe  of  thought  and  creed,  and  tinge 
"With  dreams  its  outer  fringe. 

Work,  work,  while  daylight  lasts,  and  let  the  night 
Spin  its  thin  webs  of  visionary  light, 
The  rainbow  hues  that  span  the  cataract 


Of  life  and  living  fact ! 


1874. 


THE  CENTUEY  AND    THE  NATION. 

READ  BEFORE   THE   Pni   BETA  KAPPA  SOCIETY   OF   HARVARD 
COLLEGE,  JUNE  25,  1874. 

I. 

AS  when  we  unbar  the  windows  of  the  night, 
And  the  great  morning  from  her  orient  founts 
Of  silent  fire,  with  wave  on  wave  of  light 
And  color,  floods  the  earth  and  sky,  and  mounts 
Through  heights  of  pearly  space,  nor  heeds,  nor  counts 
Her  triumphs,  as  she  inundates  the  strands 
Of  continents,  with  joy  and  life  on  seas  and  lands  ; 

IT. 

So  shines  our  century,  as  the  years  unfold 
The  events  and  thoughts  that  claim  the  poet's  lyre; 
Not  to  lament  a  vanished  age  of  gold, 
But  rather  greet  the  time,  whose  "broad  sun-fire 
Warms  into  life  the  world's  supreme  desire 
Traced  through  the  misty  hollows  of  the  night,     * 
Half  hid,  but  patient  still  to  take  the  advancing  light. 


252     THE  CENTURY  AND  THE  NATION. 

III. 

Still  art  thou  young,  thou  latest,  loveliest  age,. 
Thou  fairest,  healthiest  daughter  born  of  Time  ! 
Might  I  but  measure  with  my  narrow  gauge 
Some  fragment  of  thy  height,  fain  would  my  rhyme 
Stray  through  thy  sunlit  mountain-paths,  and  climb 
To  see  the  falsehoods  of  the  centuries  gone 
Troop  to  their  graves  like  ghosts,  while  thou  exultest  on  ! 

IV. 

O,  broad  and  warm  o'er  hill  and  seagirt  isle, 
Thy  morning  splendors  still  illume  the  sky ! 
The  hoary  cliffs,  the  pines  and  cedars,  smile 
With  rosy  flushes.     Happy  valleys  lie 
Long-shadowed.     Domes  and  steeples  catch  thine  eye, 
And  smoke  upcurls,  and  windows  flash  afar 
O'er  dew-wet  meadow-farms,  each  town  a  golden  star. 

v. 

Thou  shinest  over  fields  of  waving  grain, 
And  open  barns,  and  tottering  harvest-carts  ; 
O'er  long-drawn  iron  track  and  flying  train ; 
O'er  roar  of  steamers  and  of  crowded  marts  ; 
O'er  clear-lit  halls  of  sciences  and  arts  ; 
Where  factory-maidens  tend  the  whirling  spool ; 
Or  where  small  voices  hum  in  the  hushed  village  school. 


THE   CENTURY  AND   THE   NATION.  253 

VI. 

Thy  presence  breathes,  an  influence  calm  and  pure, 
Here,  where  these  interlacing  elms  surround 
The  walls  our  fathers  founded  to  insure 
The  culture  of  the  States  ;  a  hallowed  ground, 
Through  whose  green  academic  shades  resound 
The  echoing  footsteps  of  two  hundred  years  ; 
And  memory  linked  with  hope  instructs,  inspires,  and 
cheers. 

VII. 

By  school  and  printing-press  and  message- wire  ; 
By  ringing  anvil  and  by  furnace-blast ; 
By  dragon  steeds  of  iron,  winged  with  fire  ; 
By  flying  ocean-shuttles  weaving  fast 
The  old  and  new,  the  present  and  the  past ; 
By  strong  telluric  force ;  by  skill  and  art, 
The  world  responds  to  thee,  through  brain  and  throb 
bing  heart. 

VIII. 

The  strength  of  all  the  past  is  thine ;  the  blood 
Of  countless  years  thy  intellectual  light ; 
The  races  of  the  world  thy  tidal  flood. 
Thou  rollest  on  with  ceaseless  waves  of  bright, 

Resistless  influence,  turning  wrong  to  right, 

• 
Error  to  truth,  treason  to  loyal  faith, 

Despair  to  winged  hope,  creating  life  from  death. 


254  THE   CENTURY    AND   THE   NATION. 

IX. 

We  scarce  may  count  the  triumphs  thou  hast  won, 
So  wide  the  treasury  where  thy  wealth  is  stored. 
And  though  thy  years  have  more  than  half-way  run 
In  time's  great  sandglass,  what  thou  yet  dost  hoard 
For  future  use,  who  knows  ?     What  unexplored 
And  unimagined  powers  shall  yet  be  born ; 
What  glorious  sons  of  light,  what  daughters  of  the  morn  ! 

x. 

Thine  are  the  years  when  Man  asserts  his  claims,  — 
The  birthright  ages  have  so  long  denied, 
The  primogeniture  of  rights  and  aims 
That  vitalize  the  races ;  thine  the  tide 
That  floats  Humanity's  tost  bark  o'er  wide 
And  dreary  seas,  full-sailed,  with  -wealth  untold 
Of  long-imprisoned  hopes,  —  0,  richer  far  than  gold  ! 

XI. 

And  thine  the  central  throne  whence  Science  turns 
To  test,  with  sceptre  of  eternal  law, 
Through  space,  through  spirit,  every  ray  that  burns 
In  stars  and  star-like  souls ;  and  finds  no  flaw, 
No  discord,  as  with  joy  and  reverent  awe 
Crowning  their  toil,  her  patient  servants  climb 
The  illumined  peaks  to  read  the  unfolding  scrolls  of  time. 


THE   CENTURY  AND  THE   NATION.  255 

XII. 

We  turn  to  gaze  with  wonder  at  the  ghosts 
Whose  glamour  filled  the  ages  that  have  flown  : 
The  sway  of  priests  and  kings ;  the  embattled  hosts 
That  burned  a  blooming  land,  or  built  a  throne ; 
The  terrors  of  a  church  that  sought  to  own 
The  souls  it  crushed ;  the  inhuman  laws  that  sealed 
The  founts  of  love,  and  stained  a  nation's  virgin  shield  ; 

XIII. 

The  unmanly  morals  of  a  shameless  stage ; 
The  pomp  of  servile  courts  ;  the  robber's  fame ; 
All  false  ideals  of  a  faithless  age ; 
All  pride  of  birth  that  mocked  the  people's  claim ; 
All  superstitions,  in  whose  withering  flame 
The  faithful  saint,  the  daring  thinker  gave 
Their  memories  to  all  time,  their  bodies  to  the  grave. 

XIV. 

And  yet  all  centuries  that  have  leafed  and  flowered 
Have  dropped  for  us  their  foliage  and  their  seed ; 
Each  age,  by  all  the  ancestral  ages  dowered, 
Must  reap  the  wholesome  grain,  the  poisonous  weed, 
Heir  to  the  bloom  and  blight  alike  decreed, 
Twin-born,  the  alternate  play  of  will  and  fate, 
That  weaves  the  mystic  web  of  all  our  mortal  state. 


256  THE   CENTURY   AND   THE   NATION. 

XV. 

How  shall  we  build  with  those  time-crusted  stones, 
Dropped  from  the  ruined  arches  of  the  past  ? 
How  gather  up  the  Old  World's  discordant  tones 
In  symphonies  of  hope  ?     Or  how  recast 
The  creeds  of  darker  centuries,  and  at  last, 
With  faith  as  strong,  develop,  not  invent, 
A  fresher  heart  and  soul  for  our  vast  Continent  ? 

XVI. 

The  task  is  still  before  us,'  well  begun 
By  souls  whose  fame  is  our  delight  and  pride. 
How  our  strong  pioneers  have  toiled,  and  won 
A  hemisphere  from  chaos  ;  how  defied 
The  imperial  thunderbolts  that  far  and  wide 
Strewed  other  worlds  with  wrecks,  but  harmless  fell, 
Quenched  hissing  on  our  seas,  let  History  proudly  tell. 

XVII. 

Our  century  bends  to  them  with  thanks  and  praise ; 
Nor  less  to  those  forefathers  sad  and  stern, 
Who  left  the  poisoned  air  and  godless  ways 
Of  courts  corrupt,  in  fresher  lands  to  earn 
The  right  to  think.     What  though  we  sometimes  turn, 
In  newer  lights,  their  acrid  saintliness 
To  jest,  —  they  sowed  the  grain  whose  harvest  we  possess. 


THE    CENTURY   AND   THE   NATION.  257 

XVIII. 

Theirs  was  the  rough  and  bitter  rind  which  wrapped 
The  priceless  kernel  planted  on  our  shore. 
The  perishable  shell,  once  all  too  apt 
To  style  itself  divine,  survives  no  more. 
The  germ  that  in  its  stony  nut  it  bore 
Has  sent  abroad  a  thousand  thriving  shoots, 
And  filled  our  fields  with  trees,  our  homes  with  whole 
some  fruits. 

XIX.  « 

What  though  no  Grecian  and  no  Gothic  thought 
Of  beauty  grew  to  column,  dome,  or  spire ; 
No  artist's  hand  on  stone  or  canvas  wrought 
Their  heroes,  saints,  or  nymphs ;  no  lyric  fire, 
No  music  panting  with  divine  desire, 
In  their  plain  Saxon  lives  expression  found,  — 
They  guarded  the  deep  springs  whose  rills  enrich  our  ground. 

xx. 

Within  their  theologic  crypts  they  fed 
The  sacred  fire  that  centuries  have  preserved ; 
The  sanctities  of  home ;  the  wholesome  dread 
Of  lawless  force  ;  the  trust  that  never  swerved 
In  Providence  divine  ;  the  faith  that  nerved 
Their  souls  to  found  in  freedom,  knowledge,  right, 
A  Commonwealth  beyond  the  priest's  or  tyrant's  blight; 


258  THE    CENTURY   AND   THE   NATION. 

XXI. 

That  common  conscience  which  to-day  divides 
The  right  and  wrong,  and  scorns  to  compromise 
'Twixt  Lucifer  and  God,  —  which  so  decides 
For  even-weighted  justice,  that  no  lies 
Of  false,  fair-spoken  sophists  can  surprise 
Its  steady  vision  and  its  honest  aim, 
Or  tempt  to  pluck  the  fruit  that  breeds  a  nation's  shame ; 

XXII. 

That  fearless  love  of  truth  which  scorns  the  bait 
Of  party,  sect,  or  clan ;  the  open  eye 
And  judgment,  that  can  well  afford  to  wait 
The  verdict  of  the  future,  can  descry 
Storms  in  the  treacherous  softness  of  the  sky, 
And  through  the  windy  watches  of  a  night 
Of  tempest,  note  the  path  of  sure-returning  light ; 

XXIII. 

That  sweet  humanity  which  feels  that  all 
Who  bear  the  name  of  woman  and  of  man 
Are  one,  —  that  none  can  languish,  none  can  fall, 
But  somehow  all  must  suffer  from  a  ban 
That  darkens  o'er  the  universal  plan, 
Yet  strong  as  fate  to  oppose  all  force  insane, 
When  mad  rebellion  roars  to  rend  the  state  in  twain ;  — 


THE   CENTURY   AND  THE   NATION.  259 

XXIV. 

Such  were  the  fruits  whose  seeds  those  Pilgrims  brought 
From  far,  o'er  leagues  of  stormy  winter  brine. 
And,  as  that  ship  which  bore  the  Argonaut 
Was  set  among  the  stars,  and  held  divine, 
So  shall  our  classic  Mayflower  bloom  and  shine 
Above  a  new-found  Continent,  with  hope 
That  dims  its  earlier  dream  and  clouded  horoscope. 

XXV. 

For  dark  and  chill,  America,  the  years 
That  saw  thee  clinging  like  a  drifting  waif 
To  rocks  and  barren  shores,  thy  hopes  and  fears 
Rising  and  sinking  like  thy  tides,  till,  safe 
And  self-reliant,  vainly  did  they  chafe 
Against  thee,  though  thy  doors  beyond  the  sea 
Were  shut  against  their  child  and  deaf  to  freedom's  plea. 

XXVI. 

Young  Titan  of  the  West !  thy  cradle  swung 
In  storms.     The  wild  winds  were  thy  lullabies. 
The  cold  contempt  of  kings  around  thee  clung, 
And  gilded  courtiers  mocked  thy  infant  cries ; 
Till,  stronger  grown,  thee  as  their  lawful  prize 
When  they  had  roughly  grasped,  too  late  they  learned 
To  fear  the  freeborn  strength  their  parliaments  had  spurned. 


260  THE   CENTURY   AND   THE   NATION. 

XXVII. 

But  thou,  for  all  their  curses,  gavest  back 
From  battle-fields  and  councils,  and  the  birth 
Of  free  emprise,  a  light  that  cheered  the  black 
Despair  of  millions  whom  both  heaven  and  earth 
Dowered  with  a  blight ;  and  on  the  sand  and  dearth 
Of  distant  nations  shed  reviving  dew, 
And  stirred  the  Old  World's  heart  with  longings  strange 
and  new. 

XXVIII. 

Nor  this  alone.     The  refuge  thou  hast  been 
For  all  the  oppressed,  a  home  for  all  who  pined. 
For  them  thy  *unwalled  towns,  thy  prairies  green, 
Thy  woods  and  streams;  a  charter  unconfined; 
The  freedom  of  the  fresh,  untrammelled  mind ;  — 
All  that  can  raise  the  vile  and  cheer  the  poor 
Is  theirs  who  come  to  seek  a  dwelling  on  thy  shore. 

XXIX. 

Thou  knew'st  Columbia's  youth,  0  Mother  Age,  — 
The  struggling  youth  of  her,  thy  youngest  child, 
Fated  to  brave  the  ready-handed  rage 
Of  tyranny,  till  peace  and  plenty  smiled. 
Thine  eyes  beheld  o'er  lakes  and  forests  wild 
Her  liberal  sway,  her  culture  broad  and  free, 
Grow  with  her  growing  strength,  till  sea  was  linked  to  sea. 


THE   CENTURY  AND   THE   NATION.  2G1 

XXX. 

Thou  knew'st  the  unsifted  errors  of  that  youth,  — 
Each  blind,  misguided  impulse,  crude  and  strong ; 
Each  lapse  from  grand,  ideal  heights  of  truth 
And  justice.     Thou  hast  known  the  long, 
Dishonorable  reign  of  force  and  wrong  ; 
The  struggles  of  the  manhood  of  the  time 
Against  the  serpent-folds  of  compromise  and  crime ; 

XXXI. 

Against  that  curse  of  bondage,  in  the  mesh 
Of  whose  unhallowed  network  rich  and  poor 
Alike  were  snared ;  that  cancer  in  the  flesh 
The  blood  of  countless  hearts  alone  could  cure,  — 
The  costly  price  of  all  that  could  insure 
Freedom  and  strength  and  honor  to  the  state,  — 
The  duty  scorned  so  long,  the  lesson  learned  so  late. 

XXXII. 

The  inhuman  codes  that  chained  the  slave,  and  drowned 
The  prayers  of  freemen  lifted  in  his  cause ; 
The  people's  mad  delusions,  cheered  and  crowned ; 
The  mob's  brute  anarchy,  —  the  tiger  claws 
That  tore  to  shreds  the  wise  ancestral  laws,  — 
Shall  they  not  lie  entombed  where  none  may  dare 
Infect  with  their  decay  the  nation's  purer  air? 


262  THE   CENTURY   AND  THE   NATION. 

XXXIII. 

For  tliee,  our  Country,  may  the  advancing  age 
Evolve  a  destiny  more  nobly  vast 
Than  ever  stained  with  blood  the  antique  page 
In  blurred  and  lurid  records  of  the  past. 
For  thou  the  keys  of  treasure-chambers  hast, 
From  older  lands  and  darker  times  concealed  ; 
Their  past  shall  yield  thee  tools,  —  thy  future  is  thy  field. 

XXXIV. 

So,  —  like  a  master  bending  o'er  the  strings 
Of  some  grand  instrument  not  yet  in  tune, 
And  tempering  every  chord  until  it  rings 
Harmonious  as  the  woods  and  waves  in  June, 
Or  as  the  obedient  tides  beneath  the  moon,  — 
So  bends  the  Century  o'er  this  Western  land, 
And  wooes  its  hidden  soul  with  skilled  and  loving  hand ; 

xxxv. 

And,  blending  with  its  forces,  hath  unsealed 
The  invisible  currents  of  diviner  powers. 
Here  Science  spreads  her  wealth,  a  boundless  field ; 
Art,  Learning,  Culture,  climb  to  fruits  and  flowers. 
Time  makes  a  thousand  opening  vistas  ours ; 
A  thousand  varied  triumphs  of  the  soul 
Glow  on  the  nation's  path,  and  gild  the  historic  scroll. 


THE   CENTURY   AND   THE   NATION.  263 

XXXVI. 

Behind  us,  like  a  thunder-storm  o'erpast, 
The  clouds  of  battle  fade.     Peace  smiles  again  : 
The  Northern  winds  have  blown  their  trumpet-blast ; 
The  Southern  homes  are  answering  to  the  strain 
In  other  tones  than  those  when  death  and  pain 
Shrieked  their  dread  harvest-song  of  war,  and  reaped 
The  ghastly  fields  where  sheaves  of  life  in  blood  were 
heaped. 

XXXVII. 

We  stood  amid  the  wrecks  of  fated  schemes. 
We  stumbled  over  falsehood's  shattered  stones. 
Mid  ruined  columns  and  mid  smoking  beams 
We  toiled  with  firmer  faith,  and  hope  that  owns 
A  future  in  whose  miracles  the  tones 
Amphion  waked  to  build  his  fabled  walls 
Ring  with  the  Century's  march  where'er  its  footstep  falls. 

XXXVIII. 

Yet  good  and  evil  from  the  older  lands, 
Mixed  with  our  own,  like  mingled  dross  and  gold, 
Half  shaped  and  half  refined,  are  in  our  hands. 
We  wait  the  patient  fingers  that  shall  mould 
The  mass  to  strength  and  grace  as  yet  untold 
Amid  the  annals  of  republics  past,  — 
The  states  that  rose  like  suns  to  set  in  storms  at  last. 


264     THE  CENTURY  AND  THE  NATION. 

xxxix. 

As  once  the  sculptor  on  his  statue  wrought, 
.     Till  form  to  beauty  grew,  —  from  marble  still 
To  breathing  flesh,  affection,  motion,  thought,  — 
So  thou,  0  Mother- Age,  shalt  thou  not  fill 
The  measure  of  thy  prophecies,  until 
The  nation's  unresponsive  life  shall  warm 
And  glow  beneath  thy  touch,  beyond  the  sensuous  form ; 

XL. 

Until  the  lands  that  stretch  from  east  to  west 
Shall  know  the  presence  of  a  power  beyond 
All  bribes  or  party -limits,  —  unexpressed, 
Yet  felt,  —  to  which  all  noble  souls  respond,  — • 
The  touch  and  pressure  of  the  girdling  bond 
Of  conscience,  that  no  flaw  or  stain  degrade 
The  strong,  symmetric  limbs  in  youth  and  grace  arrayed? 

XLI. 

Thy  future,  O  my  Country,  none  may  know ; 
Yet  all  the  looms  of  Time  are  weaving  swift 
Thy  destined  warp  and  woof.     Above,  below, 
The  viewless  threads  forever  change  and  shift, 
The  noiseless  shuttles  fly.     The  overdrift 
Of  fate  moves  on  like  air  around  the  globe, 
And  blends  the  hues  of  storm  and  sunshine  in  tliv  robe. 


THE   CENTURY   AND  THE   NATION.  265 

XLII. 

'T  is  thine  to  guard  the  wisdom  that  of  old 
Gave  Rome  her  strength  and  Greece  her  art  and  grace ; 
The  wealth  that  dims  all  treasuries  of  gold, 
All  glare  of  camps  and  courts ;  whose  lights  displace 
Imperial  pomp  and  splendor,  and  efface 
The  blazoned  memories  of  the  kings  whose  fame 
Is  but  a  puff  of  dust  returning  whence  it  came. 

XLIII. 

The  time  may  come,  —  or  is  it  but  a  hope 
Of  poets  and  enthusiasts  born  to  dream, 
But  never  prophesy,  save  when  they  ope 
Their  mouths  Cassandra-like,  while  visions  gleam 
On  sleeping  worlds,  —  pale  arctic  lights  that  stream 
And  point  their  ghostly  fingers  to  the  pole, 
Where  shine  the  central  constellations  of  the  soul,  — 

XLIV. 

A  better  time,  perchance  not  ours  to  see, 
Or  see  as  some  mirage  in  desert  sands, 
When,  like  the  mighty  Californian  tree 
By  centuries  matured,  the  nation  stands 
Close-grained  and  knit  in  nature's  vital  bands,  — 
Each  State  a  spreading  branch  of  evergreen, 
Close  to  the  mother-trunk  that  towers  aloft  between ;  — 
12 


266     THE  CENTURY  AND  THE  NATION. 

XLV. 

Perchance  some  future  not  so  far  away, 
When  all  we  earned  in  war  in  peace  we  keep ; 
When  wealth  and  power  shall  dull  no  finer  ray 
Of  holier  orbs ;  when  deep  shall  answer  deep, 
Not  as  when  once  the  nation  from  her  sleep 
Of  cheating  dreams  woke  to  the  battle's  clang, 
But  souls  to  souls,  as  when  the  stars  of  morning  sang. 

XLVI. 

Then  shall  the  scholar  and  the  teacher  know 
How  fruitless  learning  is,  which  sows  its  seeds 
On  hearts  where  no  deep  sympathies  can  grow, 
Caught  from  the  prophet-souls,  in  words  and  deeds, 
That  from  beneath  the.  strata  of  dead  creeds 
Spring  to  the  surface  of  the  age,  —  the  true 
And  universal  faith,  —  though  old,  forever  new. 

XLVII. 

Then  party  camps  shall  cease  to  be  a  mart 
Where  politicians  ply  their  sordid  trade ; 
Then  lowly  worth  and  skill  shall  bear  their  part 
In  offices  and  councils ;  then,  unswayed 
By  thirst  for  spoils,  the  honest  man  shall  aid 
The  state  without  the  enforcement  of  a  rod 
To  sell  his  five-born  vote,  —  to  cringe  to  a  leader's  nod. 


THE   CENTURY   AND   THE   NATION.  2G7 

XLVIII. 

Then  in  the  nation's  capitol  no  blush 
Of  shame  shall  tinge  the  brows  of  those  who  plight 
The  nation's  word  to  truth ;  no  bribe  shall  hush 
The  voice  of  reason,  and  no  conscience  slight 
The  everlasting  statute-book  of  right : 
But  they  who  for  the  people  stand  shall  speak 
The  people's  wiser  moods,  nor  selfish  guerdons  seek. 

XLIX. 

Then  he  who  rules  shall  serve  the  country's  cause, 
Nor  bow  his  knightly  crest  when  factions  roar, 
Nor  waver  in  the  breath  of  fitful  flaAvs 
Blown  by  his  friends  or  foes ;  sound  to  the  core 
His  heart  of  hearts,  —  though  oft  with  travail  sore 
Perplexed  and  worn,  still  faithful  at  his  post, 
Waiting  the  grand  results,  though  counting  all  the  cost. 

L. 

Two  such  we  knew,  when  mad  rebellion  gashed 
The  nation's  limbs.     One,  helmsman  on  the  bark 
Of  state,  when  thunders  roared  and  lightnings  flashed, 
Steered  us  to  port,  —  himself  the  assassin's  mark ; 
The  other,  in  whose  breast  no  less  the  spark 
Of  honor  shone,  your  Bay  State  raised  to  bless, 
To  govern,  and  to  guide  through  years  of  anxious  stress. 


268  THE   CENTURY    AND   THE   NATION. 

LI. 

Another  too,  —  late  fallen,  —  who  in  the  van 
For  years  amid  contending  forces  stood 
A  fearless  champion  of  the  rights  of  man ; 
Who  dared  and  suffered,  as  he  stemmed  the  flood, 
By  storms  assailed,  by  flattering  ripples  wooed  ;  — 
The  statesman,  scholar,  sage.     Let  Harvard  claim 
His  youth,  your  State  his  birth,  the  land  his  manhood's 

fame. 

LII. 

The  great,  the  good,  —  the  living  and  the  dead, 
Who  wrought  their  earnest  lives  into  the  grain 
And  texture  of  the  age ;  the  hearts  that  bled ; 
The  brains  that  toiled  for  truth,  not  power  or  gain,  — 
These  are  the  saviors  of  the  race.     In  vain 
The  historian  writes,  in  vain  the  poet  sings, 
Who  knows  not,  as  they  pass,  the  time's  anointed  kings ! 

LIU. 

Like  glowing  pictures  in  some  missal  old 
Whose  dulled  and  yellowed  leaves  in  dust  were  laid, 
The  illumined  pages  start  to  life.     Behold 
The  noble  men  and  women  who  have  made 
The  light  of  memories  that  can  never  fade  ; 
The  aroma  of  all  history,  —  the  bloom 
And  spice  of  time,  —  though  dead,  still  fragrant  i;i  the 
tomb. 


THE   CENTURY   AND   THE   NATION.  269 

LIV. 

Such  is  the  life  the  nation  craves.     For  such 
No  toil,  no  aspiration  can  we  waste. 
O  land  of  hope  and  promise  !  let  no  touch 
Of  that  Promethean  fire  whose  flame  effaced 
The  gods  of  darkness  pass  unfelt,  no  taste 
Of  baser  glory  lure  thee  from  the  streams 
AYhose  crystal  springs  are  hid  in  thy  prophetic  dreams. 

LV. 

And  as  along  thy  darkening  ocean  strand 
Thy  Pharos-towers  their  punctual  stars  illume 
At  eventide  ;  and  ships  from  every  land 
Shun,  toiling  through  the  waves,  the  sailor's  doom,  — 
So  turn  thy  living  lamps  upon  the  gloom 
Of  storm-tost  nations,  that  thy  constant  rays 
May  bless  the  world,  and  prove  thy  crowning  fame  and 
praise  ! 


THE  LAY  OF  THEYM;  OR,  THE  HAMMEE  EECOVEEED, 

A    VERSIFICATION   FROM   THE    OLD   NORSE    EDDA    OF    S^MUND 
THE   LEARNED. 

W  ROTH  was  Vingthor  when  awaking  he  his  mighty 

hammer  missed, 
Felt  about  him,  shook  his  beard,  and  smote  his  forehead 

with  his  fist. 
"  Hear,  O  Loki,  what  I  tell  thee,  known  to  none  above, 

below; 

Stolen  is  the  ^Esir  hammer.     Swift  to  Freyia  let  ns  go." 
To  the  dwelling  of  fair  Freyia  straight  they  flew  as  swift 

as  wind. 
"  Lend  thy  feather-dress,  0  Freyia ;  I  my  hammer  fain 

would  find." 

"  Though  't  were  woven  gold  or  silver,  I  would  lend  it," 
Freyia  said. 

Then  with  whistling  plumage  Loki  over  plains  and  moun- 
* 

tains  sped. 


THE   LAY   OF  THRYM.  271 

Flew  beyond  the  ^Esirs'  dwellings,  till  lie  came  to  Jotun- 

lands. 
On  a  mound  sat  Thrym,  the  Lord  of  Thursar,  plaiting 

golden  bands, 
Plaiting  collars  for  his  greyhounds,  smoothing  down  his 

horses'  manes. 
"  Why  to  Jotunheim  alone,  0  Loki,  com'st  thou  o'er  the 

plains  ?  " 

% 

"Hast   thou   hidden   Vingthor's    hammer?     Ill   betide 

thee  if  thou  hast !  " 
"  I   have  hidden  Vingthor's  hammer,  in  the  earth  full 

many  a  rast ; 
None  shall  get  it  thence  again,  though  he  should  labor 

all  his  life, 
Till  he  brings  to  me  fair  Freyia  for  my  own  and  wedded 

wife." 
Then    with    whistling    plumage    Loki    flew   beyond    the 

Jotunland 
Till  within  the  ^Esirs'  courts  he  saw  the  mighty  Vingthor 

stand. 

"  Thou  hast  labored ;    hast  thou  prospered  ?     Tell    thy 

tidings  from  the  air ; 
They  who  sit  are  often  false,  although  their  speech  be 

smooth  and  fair." 


272  THE   LAY   OF  THRYM. 

"  I  have  labored,  I  have  prospered.     Thiym  thy  hammer 

took,  0  king. 
None  shall  get  it  thence  save  he  who  Freyia  for  his  wife 

will  bring." 

Forth   to   Ereyia   then  they  flew,  and  first  of  all  these 

words  they  said : 
"  Put  thy  bridal  raiment  on,  0  Freyia ;  thou  with  Thrym 

must  wed. 
Ride  with  us  to  Jotunheim.     The  Thursar's  lord  shall  be 

thy  spouse." 
Then    did   Freyia  chafe  with   anger,  and    she   knit  her 

queenly  brows, 
And  the  ^Esirs'  palace  trembled  as  she  paced  it  through 

and  through, 
And  the  famed  Brisinga  necklace  from  her  neck  in  shivers 

flew. 

"  I  should  be  the  frailest  woman  and  the  basest  of  my 
time, 

If  with  thee,  in  bridal  raiment,  I  should  ride  to  Jotun 
heim  I  " 

Straightway  then  in  council   gathered    all    the  MSIT  to 

debate 
How  Hlorridi's  hidden  hammer  they  should  rescue  from 

its  fate. 


THE   LAY   OF   THRYM.  273 

Heimdall,  then,  of  ^sir  brightest,  thus  amid  the  gods 

did  speak  : 
"  Let  Thor  dress  in  bridal  raiment,  with  the  necklace  on 

his  neck ; 
By  his  side  the  keys  shall  jingle,  round  his  knees  a  gown 

be  spread, 
Jewels  sparkle  on  his  breast,  a  golden  coif  upon  his  head." 

Then  outspoke  the  mighty  Vingthor,  "  Shall  a  woman's 

part  be  mine  ? 
For  the  gods  will  smile  to  see  me  robed  in  bridal  raiment 

fine." 

Then  spake  Loki,  "  Mighty  Tlior,  such  words  do    not 

become  thee  well : 
If  thy  hammer  thou  shalt  lose,  in  Asgard  will  the  Jotuns 

dwell." 

So  in  bridal  robes  they  dressed  him ;  like  a  maiden  he 

was  led. 
By  his  side  the  keys  did  jingle,  round  his  knees  a  gown 

was  spread, 
Jewels  sparkled  on  his  breast,  a  golden  coif  upon   his 


12 


THE   LAY   OF   THRYM. 

Then  said  ^Loki,  "  I  will  aid  thee,  as  thy  servant  for  a 

time, 
And  we  two  will  ride  together  till  we  come  to  Jotun- 

heirn." 

Swift  the  goats  were  caught  and  harnessed ;  swift  and  far 

their  feet  did  rim. 
Rocks  were  shivered,  earth  ablaze.     To  Jotunheim  rode 

Odin's  son. 

Thrym,  the  Lord  of  Thursar,  shouted :  "  Up  now,  every 

Jotun's  son ; 
Freyia  for  my  wife  they  bring  me,  —  Niord's  maid  from 

Noatun. 
Hither  bring  the  gold-horned  cattle,  —  oxen  black,  the 

Jotun's  pride. 
Treasures  I  have  many ;  only  needed  Freyia  for  my  bride." 

In  the  evening  came  the  Jotuns.  Beer  for  them  was 
brought  in  pails. 

Thor  alone  devoured  an  ox,  and  salmons  eight  with  bones 
and  scales. 

All  the  sweetmeats  women  fancy  disappeared  with  won 
drous  speed, 

While  he  quenched  his  thirst  by  drinking  three  huge 
horns  of  foaming  mead. 


THE   LAY   OF  THRYM.  275 

Then  said  Thrym,  the  Lord  of  Thursar,  "  Never  in  my 

life  I  saw 
Maidens  drink  such  draughts  of  mead,  or  brides  with 

such  a  hungry  maw  !  " 

Said  the  crafty  Loki,  sitting  as  a  handmaid  all  this  time, 
"  Eight  nights  Freyia  naught  has  eaten,  longing  so  for 

Jotunheim." 

'Neath  her  veil  Thrym  stooped  to  kiss  her,  but  sprang 

back  along  the  hall ;  — 
"  Why  are  Freyia's  eyes  so  piercing  ?  —  Sparks  of  fire  my 

heart  appall !  " 

Said  the  crafty  Loki,  sitting  as  a  handmaid  all  the  time, 
"  Eight  nights  Preyia  has  not  slept,  so  eager  she  for 

Jotunheim." 

In  then  came  the  Jotun's  sister ;  for  a  bride-gift  dared  to 

crave. 
"  Give  me  all  thy  ruddy  rings,  if  thou  my  love  wouldst 

seek  to  have." 

"  Bring  the  hammer  now  !  "  Thrym  shouted.     "  Let  us 

consecrate  the  bride. 
Lay  Miollner  on  her  knee  ;    naught  can  now  our  lives 

divide." 


276  THE   LAY    OF   THRYM. 

In  his  breast  then  laughed  Hlorridi,  when  his  hammer  he 

beheld. 
Up  he  rose  and  slew  the  Jotuns,  —  all  the  Jo  tun  race  he 

felled; 
Felled  the  Jotun's  aged  sister,  who  a  bride-gift  sought  to 

gain,  — 
She,  instead  of  golden  rings,  by  Vingthor's  hammer-stroke 

was  slain. 
So  got  Odin's  son  his  hammer  from  the  Jotuns  back 

again. 


MICHAEL  ANGELO  BUONABOTTI. 

READ  AT  A  CELEBRATION  OF  THE  FOUR  HUNDREDTH  ANNIVER 
SARY  OF  HIS  BIRTH,  BY  THE  NEW  ENGLAND  WOMEN'S  CLUB, 
BOSTON,  MARCH  6,  1875. 


I  HIS  is  the  rugged  face 
Of  him  who  won  a  place 

Above  all  kings  and  lords; 
Whose  various  skill  and  power 
Left  Italy  a  dower 
No  numbers  can  compute,  no  tongue  translate  in  words. 

ii. 

Patient  to  train  and  school 
His  genius  to  the  rule 

Art's  sternest  laws  required  ; 
Yet,  by  no  custom  chained, 
His  daring  hand  disdained 
The  academic  forms  bv  tamer  souls  admired. 


278  MICHAEL   ANGELO    BUONAROTTI. 

III. 

In  his  interior  light 
Awoke  those  shapes  of  might, 

Once  known,  that  never  die ; 
Forms  of  Titanic  birth, 
The  elder  brood  of  earth, 
That  fill  the  mind  more  grandly  than  they  charm  the  eye. 

IV. 

Yet  when  the  master  chose, 
Ideal  graces  rose 

Like  flowers  on  gnarled  boughs  ; 
For  he  was  nursed  and  fed 
At  Beauty's  fountain-head, 
And  to  the  goddess  pledged  his  earliest,  warmest  vows. 

v. 

Entranced  in  thoughts  whose  vast 
Imaginations  passed 

Into  his  facile  hand, 
By  adverse  fate  unfoiled, 
Through  long,  long  years  he  toiled ; 
Undimmed  the   eyes  that  saw,   unworn  the  brain  that 
planned. 


MICHAEL    ANGELO    BUONAROTTI.  279 

VI. 

A  soul  the  Church's  bars, 
The  State's  disastrous  wars 
Kept  closer  to  his  youth. 
Though  rough  the  winds  and  sharp, 
They  could  not  bend  or  warp 
His  soul's  ideal  forms  of  beauty  and  of  truth. 


VII. 

Like  some  cathedral  spire 
That  takes  the  earliest  fire 

Of  morn,  he  towered  sublime 
O'er  names  and  fames  of  mark 
Whose  lights  to  his  were  dark ; 
Facing  the  east,  he  caught  a  glow  beyond  his  time. 

VIII. 

Whether  he  drew,  or  sung, 
Or  wrought  in  stone,  or  hung 

The  Pantheon  in  the  air  ; 
Whether  he  gave  to  Eome 
Her  Sistine  walls  or  dome, 
Or  laid  the  ponderous  beams,  or  lightly  wound  the  stair ; 


280  MICHAEL   ANGELO   BUONAROTTI. 

IX. 

Whether  he  planned  defence 
On  Tuscan  battlements, 

Fired  with  the  patriot's  zeal, 
Where  San  Miniato's  glow 
Smiled  down  upon  the  foe, 

Till  Treason  won  the  gates  that  mocked  the  invader's 
steel ; 

x. 

Whether  in  lonely  nights 
With  Poesy's  delights 

He  cheered  his  solitude  ; 
In  sculptured  sonnets  wrought 
His  firm  and  graceful  thought, 
Like  marble  altars  in  some  dark  and  mystic  wood,  — 


XI. 

Still,  proudly  poised,  he  stepped 
The  Avay  his  vision  swept, 

And  scorned  the  narrower  view. 
He  touched  with  glory  all 
That  pope  or  cardinal, 
With  lower  aims  than  his,  allotted  him  to  do. 


MICHAEL  ANGELO   BUONAROTTI.  281 

XII. 

A  heaven  of  larger  zone  — 

Not  theirs,  but  his  —  was  thrown 

O'er  old  and  wonted  themes. 
The  fires  within  his  soul 
Shone  like  an  aureole 
Around  the  prophets  old  and  sibyls  of  his  dreams. 

XIII. 

Thus  self-contained  and  bold, 
His  glowing  thoughts  he  told 

On  canvas  or  on  stone, 
He  needed  not  to  seek 
His  themes  from  Jew  or  Greek ; 
His  soul  enlarged  their  forms,  his  style  was  all  his  own. 


XIV. 

Ennobled  by  his  hand, 
Florence  and  Rome  shall  stand 
Stamped  with  the  signet-ring 
He  wore,  where  kings  obeyed 
The  laws  the  artists  made. 
Art  was  his  world,  and  he  was  Art's  anointed  king. 


282  MICHAEL   ANGELO   BUONAROTTI. 


So  stood  this  Angelo 
Four  hundred  years  ago  ; 

So  grandly  still  he  stands, 
Mid  lesser  worlds  of  Art, 
Colossal  and  apart, 
Like  Memnon  breathing  songs  across  the  desert  sands. 


ON  RE-READING  TENNYSON'S  PRINCESS. 


IF  at  this  moment,  in  his  distant  isle 

And  home,  shut  in  by  trees  and  ivied  walls, 
Where,  hidden  like  the  fountains  of  the  Nile, 

He  dreams  among  his  palms  and  waterfalls,  — 
If  there  he  knew  how  one  beneath  the  pines 

Of  Transatlantic  lands,  to  him  unknpwn, 
Followed  with  glowing  throb  the  poet's  lines 

From  page  to  page  o'er  all  the  waves  of  tone, 
And  read  with  stirring  pulse  and  moistened  eyes, 

And  fancy  in  delighted  tumult  caught 
Mid  fairy  splendors,  visionary  skies, 

And  wild  JEolian  melodies  of  thought,  — 
Should  then  this  stranger  tell  him  all  he  felt, 

In  speech,  or  letter  burdened  with  his  praise, 
Think  you  that  proud,  sequestered  soul  would  melt 

To  answer  from  behind  his  British  bays  ? 
Nay,  might  he  not  his  gates  more  closely  bar 


284     ON    RE-READING   TENNYSON'S    PRINCESS. 

Against  the  intrusion,  as  of  one  that  sought 
With  alien  touch  to  unsphere  the  poet's  star, 
And  dwarf  with  diagrams  his  orbed  thought  ? 

So  have  I  whistled  to  a  woodland  thrush 

That  charmed  the  silence  of  a  forest  green  : 
Sudden  the  liquid  cadence  ceased  to  gush  ; 

Deep  in  the  leafy  gloom  he  hid  unseen. 
And  so  the  poet  sings,  nor  can  unmask 

With  gloss  of  random  talk  his  secret  runes. 
Hope  not.  the  English  nightingale  will  task 

His  tongue  beneath  the  old,  unbidden  tunes. 
Nor  seek  to  snare  the  aroma  of  the  rose 

That  fills  the  garden  with  its  mystic  scents ; 
Nor,  when  the  enchanted  stream  of  music  flows, 

Press  a  prose  comment  from  the  instruments. 
Enough  that  one  who  prompts  the  melody 

Of  younger  bards  and  lords  it  in  their  style 
Should  sing  unanswered,  where  alone  and  free 

He  dreams  amid  his  fountains  of  the  Nile. 


SONNETS. 


THE  HIGHER  LAW. 


MAN  was  not  made  for  forms,  but  forms  for  man. 

And  there  are  times  when  law  itself  must  bend 

To  that  clear  spirit  always  in  the  van, 

Outspeeding  human  justice.     In  the  end 

Potentates,  not  humanity,  must  fall. 

Water  will  find  its  level,  fire  will  burn, 

The  winds  must  blow  around  the  earthly  ball, 

The  earthly  ball  by  day  and  night  must  turn ; 

Freedom  is  typed  in  every  element. 

Man  must  be  free,  if  not  through  law,  why  then 

Above  the  law,  until  its  force  be  spent, 

And  justice  brings  a  better.     But,  O,  when, 

Father  of  Light,  when  shall  the  reckoning  come 

To  lift  the  weak,  and  strike  the  oppressor  dumb  ? 

1850. 


CIRCUMSTANCE. 


THERE  are  dark  spots  on  yonder  mountain-side, 

So  black  that  they  seem  fixed  and  rooted  there : 

But  they  will  not,  believe  me,  long  abide ; 

The  clouds  that  cast  them  vanish  into  air. 

So  are  there  mountain  minds  who  sometimes  dare 

Lift  to  the  world  their  seeming  blemishes, 

Shadows  of  circumstance.     Do  not  compare 

These  with  the  vices  the  eye  daily  sees, 

Blighting  the  bloom  of  spirits  tamely  hedged 

In  the  unwholesome  swamps  that  sleep  below, 

Where  the  malaria  of  accepted  lies 

Thins  the  dull  blood  to  meagre  virtues  pledged. 

Better  endure  the  clouds  that  come  and  go, 

Than  court  the  infected  shades  where  freedom  dies. 


SHAKESPEARE, 


IT  needs  no  bow  o'erstrained  to  wing  the  shaft 

Of  wit  and  wisdom.     When  great  poets  sing, 

Into  the  night  new  constellations  spring, 

With  music  in  the  air  that  dulls  the  craft 

Of  rhetoric.     So  when  Shakespeare  sang  or  laughed, 

The  world  with  long,  sweet  Alpine  echoes  thrilled, 

Voiceless  to  scholars'  tongues  no  muse  had  filled 

With  melody  divine.     Athirst,  men  quaffed 

His  airy,  electric  words  like  heavenly  wine. 

The  mountain  summits  of  that  Orient  land 

Outsoar  the  level  of  our  praises  fine. 

All  others  lie  around  like  hills  of  sand, 

With  here  and  there  a  green  isle  or  a  palm, 

That  whispers  pleasantly  when  days  are  calm. 


1:5 


THE  GAEDEN, 


NAUGHT  know  we  but  the  heart  of  summer  here. 

On  the  tree-shadowed  velvet  lawn  I  lie, 

And  dream  up  through  the  close  leaves  to  the  sky, 

And  weave  Arcadian  visions  in  a  sphere 

Of  peace.     The  steaming  heat  broods  all  around, 

But  only  lends  a  quiet  to  the  hours. 

The  aromatic  life  of  countless  flowers, 

The  singing  of  a  hundred  birds,  the  sound 

Of  rustling  leaves,  go  pulsing  through  the  green 

Of  opening  vistas  in  the  garden  walks. 

Dear  Summer,  on  thy  balmy  breast  I  lean, 

And  care  not  how  the  moralist  toils  or  talks ; 

Repose  and  Beauty  preach  a  gospel  too, 

Deep  as  that  sterner  creed  the  Apostles  knew. 


THE  GARDEN   (CONTINUED). 


Is  there  no  praise  of  God  amid  the  bowers 

Of  summer  idleness  ?     Still  must  we  toil 

And  think,  and  tease  the  conscience,  and  so  soil 

With  over-careful  fingering  the  flowers 

That  blow  within  the  garden  of  the  heart  ? 

Still  must  we  be  machines  for  grinding  out 

Thin  prayers  and  moralisms  ?     Much  I  doubt, 

Pale  priest  of  a  thorn-girded  church,  thy  part 

Is  small  in  this  wide  breathing  universe. 

Least  can  I  find  thy  title  and  thy  worth 

Here,  where  with  myriad  chords  the  musical  earth 

Is  rhyming  to  the  enraptured  poet's  verse. 

Better  thy  cowl  befits  thy  cloister's  gloom ; 

Its  shadow  blots  the  garden  and  its  bloom. 

1852. 


TO  G.  W.  C. 


GiORGiONE  MIO  !     In  your  brilliant  books, 
Spiced  through  with  odors  from  the  balmy  East, 
And  musical  as  winds  and  woodland  brooks, 
Pages  for  fragrance  as  for  solid  feast, 
You  have  touched  sweetly  on  a  few  bright  days 
Under  the  blue  dome  of  Italia's  sky, 
When  side  by  side  we  drank  the  golden  haze 
Whose  wondrous  light  from  us  can  never  die ; 
And  sweetly,  covertly,  you  twined  my  name 
In  the  rich  wreath  you  flung  before  the  world. 
Dear  Friend  !  for  you  I  fain  would  do  the  same ; 
And  when  this  small  bouquet  that  I  have  twirled 
Upon  the  stage  where  you  are  gathering  fame, 
Catches  your  eye,  you  '11  know  from  whom  it  came. 

1853. 


TO  W.  W.  S, 


I  DID  not  think  to  sail  with  you,  dear  friend, 

Over  the  waters  of  this  charmed  bay, 

And  bring  you  to  my  summer  home,  to  spend 

Together  such  a  sweet  and  sunny  day. 

As  we  sped  on,  a  shadowy  fear  there  lay 

Half  o'er  my  hope,  that  accident  might  scrawl 

The  new-turned  leaf  in  this  fair  book  of  May. 

But  thanks  to  the  kind  powers,  I  tasted  all 

For  which  I  longed  ;  and  in  these  grape-vine  bowers 

Upon  the  ten-ace  by  the  sea,  I  felt 

All  harmonies  of  nature  blend  with  ours, 

And  in  the  fleeting  moments  calmly  melt, 

While  yon  blue  waves  and  purple  mountain  stood 

Wrapt  in  the  soft  light  of  our  genial  mood. 

SOREEXTO,  ITALY,  May,  1848. 


TO  W.  W.  S, 


So  many  years  have  passed,  so  far  away 

You  seem,  since  arm  in  arm  and  eye  to  eye 

We  talked  together,  while  the  great  blue  sky 

Of  Rome  smiled  over  us  day  after  day, 

Or  on  the  flower-starred  villa  grounds  we  lay 

Beneath  the  pines,  while  poesy  and  art 

And  mirth  lent  us  one  common  mind  and  heart. 

So  long  ago  !  while  we  are  growing  gray, 

And  neither  knows  the  life  the  other  leads, 

Shut  in  our  separate  spheres  of  thought  and  change. 

Friend  of  my  youth,  how  oft  my  spirit  needs 

The  old,  responsive  voice  !     Silence  is  strange, 

That  so  conspires  with  Time.     O,  let  us  break 

The  spell,  and  speak,  at,  least  for  old  love's  sake  ! 

NEW  YORK,  April  9,  1870. 


TO  0.  B.  F, 


To  you,  rejected  by  the  church  which  most 
Vaunts  its  own  outgrowth  from  the  older  creeds,. 
Yet,  jealous  of  God's  boundless  Pentecost, 
Disowns  all  plants  from  its  own  flying  seeds, 
And  props  its  stalk  on  formulas  and  texts, 
Close  shut  from  blowing  winds  of  freer  thought,  — 
To  you,  0  friend,  we  turn,  who,  leaving  sects 
And  rites  outworn,  have  ever  bravely  sought 
To  find  and  lead  the  way  to  ampler  heights 
Of  vision  and  of  faith.     Your  voice  we  hear, 
Rich  with  the  earnest  eloquence  of  truth  ; 
And,  following  where  its  cheering  tone  invites, 
The  fogs  of  doubt  disperse,  the  sky  is  clear, 
And  the  wide  prospect  smiles  with  hope  and  youth. 


TO  0,  B.  P.  (CONTINUED). 


ALONE  you  stand,  a  herald  of  the  morn 
Of  reason,  faith,  and  large  humanity,  — 
Auroral  airs  of  earth  and  heaven  born, 
Blown  from  the  east  across  time's  chano-eful  sea. 

O 

One  day  the  world  will  know  you,  ranked  with  those 
Who  foremost  in  the  nation's  honor  stand,  — 
The  poet  seers,  who,  as  the  century  grows, 
Give  it  a  shape,  with  heart  and  brain  and  hand 
Pledged  to  the  truth.     I  only  say  what  all 
Will  know,  when  clearer  lamps  are  lit  than  noAV 
In  Christendom's  dim  crypts  stand  flickering  low ; 
And  fain  to  you  would  bring  some  coronal 
Worthier  than  this  small  wreath  of  song  I  weave  : 
The  fuller  praise  the  riper  times  will  give. 

1870. 


YOUTH  AND  AGE. 


WHEN  young,  I  slighted  art,  yet  sighed  for  fame ; 

Dashed  into  careless  rhyme,  and  toyed  with  thought. 

When  art  and  thoughts  with  age  and  wisdom  came, 

I  laid  aside  the  verse  that  youth  had  wrought. 

These  fruits,  I  said,  were  green,  that  from  my  bough, 

When  windy  fancies  swept,  so  lightly  fell; 

A  mellower  autumn  sun  is  shining  now, 

That  shames  the  cruder  crop  once  loved  so  well. 

Yet  when  it  chanced  some  tender  hearts  had  found 

A  sweeter  flavor  in  the  juiceless  things 

That  lay  in  heaps  neglected  on  the  ground, 

Than  in  the  fruits  the  ripening  season  brings, 

I  thought,  Must  life  retrace  its  pilgrimage, 

And  youth  sing  songs  for  youth,  arid  age  for  age  ? 

1874. 


POEMS  OF  THE  WAR, 


THE  BUEIAL  OF  THE  FLAG, 

AN  INCIDENT  IN  MEMPHIS,  TENNESSEE,  1861. 

0,  WHO  are  these  that  troop  along,  and  whither  do  they 

go? 
Why  move  they  thus  with  measured  tread,  while  funeral 

trumpets  blow  ? 
Why  gather  round  that  open  grave  in  mockery  of  woe  ? 

They  stand  together  on  the   brink,    they   shovel  in  the 

clod; 
But  what  is  that  they  bury  deep  ?  Why  trample  they  the 

sod? 
Why  hurry  they  so  fast  away,  without  a  prayer  to  God  ? 

It  was  no  corpse  of  friend  or  foe.     I  see  a  flag  uprollcd  ; 
The  golden  stars,  the  gleaming  stripes,  are  gathered  fold 

on  fold, 
And  lowered  into  the  hollow  grave,  to  rot  beneath  the 

mould. 


302  THE   BURIAL   OF  THE  FLAG. 

Then  up  they  hoisted  all  around,  on  towers  and  hills  and 
crags, 

The  emblems  of  their  traitorous  schemes,  their  base  dis 
union  flags. 

That  very  night  there  blew  a  wind  that  tore  them  all  to 
rags ! 

And  one  that  flaunted  bravest  by  the  storm  was  swept 

away, 
And  hurled  upon  the  grave  in  which  our  country's  banner 

lay» 

Where,  soaked  with  rain  and  stained  with  mud,  they  found 
it  the  next  day. 

From  out  the  North  a  power  comes  forth,  —  a  patient 

power  too  long,  — 
The  spirit  of  the  great,  free  air,  —  a  tempest  swift  and 

strong ; 
The  living  burial  of  our  flag,  it  will  not  brook  that  wrong. 

The  stars  of  heaven  shall  gild  her  still ;  her  stripes  like 
rainbows  gleam ; 

Her  billowy  folds  like  surging  clouds  o'er  North  and 
South  shall  stream. 

She  is  not  dead,  she  lifts  her  head,  she  takes  the  morn 
ing's  beam ! 


THE  BURIAL  OF  THE  FLAG.       303 

The  banner  of  the  unsevered  States,  —  though  buried  in 
the  dust, 

She  is  not  dead;  she  springs  to  life;  her  cause,  like 
truth's,  is  just ; 

She  leads  the  van,  her  meteor  flame  directs  the  thunder- 
gust  ! 

That  storm  of  lightning,  wind,  and  rain  shall  sweep  the 

country  clean, 
Till  sweet  airs  breathe,  and  bright  suns  shine  the  cloudy 

rifts  between, 
And  all  the  vales  shall  bloom  anew,  and  all  the  hills  be 

green ! 

June  4,  1861. 


THE    EOSE    OF    DEATH, 

A  BALLAD  OF  THE  WAR. 

I. 

OHE  told  me  of  a  rose 
In  a  Southern  field  that  grows ; 
But  my  love,  my  love,  —  she  little  knows 

The  flower  that  I  may  bring. 
In  the  heart  of  the  perilous  storm, 
By  the  roads  where  our  foemen  swarm, 
In  the  fields  of  death  it  blossoms  warm ; 
But  on  I  march,  and  sing 
0  the  red,  red  rose, 
She  little  knows 
The  flower  that  I  may  bring  ! 

ii. 

"  For  I  am  Northern  born  : 
She,  —  only  yestermorn 
I  saw  on  her  lips  her  Southern  scorn. 
Coldly  she  saw  me  fling 


THE   ROSE   OF  DEATH. 

My  student's  cap  away ; 
Coldly  she  heard  me  say, 
'  In  the  Union  ranks  I  march  to-day  ! ' 
And  here  I  march,  and  sing ;  — 

0  the  red,  red  rose, 

She  little  knows 

Thejlower  that  I  may  bring  ! 

in. 

"  Ah,  it  were  sweet  to  know, 
When  face  to  face  with  the  foe, 
That  a  loving  heart  did  with  me  go, 
Like  the  kiss  of  a  talisman  ring, 
Praying  that  death  might  spare 
The  life  of  her  lover  there, 
In  the  cannon's  smoke  and  the  trumpet's  blare. 
No  matter.     I  march,  and  sing 
0  tlie  red,  red  rose, 
She  little  knows 
Thejlower  that  I  may  bring  ! 

IV. 

"  Her  love,  —  have  I  lost  it  all, 
Because  at  my  country's  call 
I  said,  *  'T  were  better  in  battle  to  fall 
Than  see  this  treason  cling ! ' 


306  THE   ROSE   OF   DEATH. 

Her  friends  are  my  foemen  now, 
'  Traitor '  is  writ  on  each  brow. 
On,  comrades  !  I  have  made  a  vow, 
And  I  breathe  it  as  I  sing 

0  the  red,  red  rose, 

Site  little  knows 

The  fewer  that  I  may  bring  !  " 

v. 

Deep  in  the  battle  there 

His  breast  to  the  guns  is  bare, 

Where  flame  and  smoke  befoul  the  air, 

Swords  clash  and  rifles  ring. 
"  She  loves,"  he  cried,  "  but  the  brave 
Who  fight  for  the  chains  of  the  slave. 
What  then  ?     I  can  fill  a  patriot's  grave, 
Though  she  may  jest,  and  sing 
0  the  red,  red  rose, 
He  thinks  that  he  knows 
The  flower  lie  home  will  bring  !  " 

VI. 

All  terror  the  soldier  scorns, 
Mid  the  cannon  and  clanging  horns ; 
From  the  bristling  fields  of  the  bayonet  thorns 
A  rose  on  his  breast  he  will  briiiff. 


THE   ROSE   OF  DEATH.  307 

What  is  it  ?     A  death-shot  red 
To  his  fearless  heart  has  sped ; 
With  his  face  to  the  fire,  he  reels,  —  he  is  dead ! 
And  the  soldiers  who  bear  him  sing 

0  the  blood-red  rose  ! 

She  little  knoics 

The  flower  that  home  we  bring  ! 

VII. 

Ah,  sad  were  the  streets  the  morn 
When  that  brave  form  was  borne, 
Wrapped  in  the  Union  banner,  torn 

Like  a  wounded  eagle's  wing. 
At  her  window  the  maiden  stood, 
Changed  from  her  angry  mood  ; 
And  she  saw  on  her  lover's  breast  the  blood ; 
And  the  death-march  seemed  to  sing 

0  the  blood-red  rose 

From  our  country' s  foes 

Is  the  only  flower  we  bring  ! 

VIII. 

She  rushed  to  the  bier  with  a  cry. 
"  O  God  !  "  she  said,  "  it  was  I 
Who  sent  him,  without  one  kiss,  to  die 
In  the  flush  of  his  morn  of  spring  ! 


308  THE   ROSE   OF  DEATH. 

Too  late,  —  this  pang  at  my  breast ! 

Ah,  let  me  at  least  go  rest 

In  the  grave  where  you  bear  the  dearest,  best ! 
And  the  pitying  winds  shall  sing 
Here  Love's  red  rose 
Met  Death's,  at  the  close 
Of  tJteir  lives,  in  eternal  spring  !  " 


NOVEMBEE  STH,  1864, 


JOY  to  our  reunited  States!  —  one  struggle  more  lias 

passed. 
A  load  is  lifted  from  our  hearts.  The  traitors  stand 

aghast. 
The  Nation  writes  its  record  clear ;  —  our  land  is  saved  at 

last! 

Calmly  mid  armed  conspirators  this  day  a  work  is  done, 
Amid  the  thunder  of  the  war  one  bloodless  field  is  won, 
That  on  the  page  of  history  glows  in  letters  like  the  sun. 

One  effort  of  the  people  towards  the  source  of  primal  light; 
One  forward  leap  across  the  gulf  from  chaos  and  from 

night ; 
One  stride  along  the  century  to  union  based  on  right ! 


310  NOVEMBER   STH,   1864. 

We  see  the  rainbow  span  the  gloom.  We  hear  the  deep- 
toned  bell 

That  strikes  the  nation's  hour  of  noon,  toll  slavery's 
funeral-knell. 

Rebellion  totters  to  its  doom.  The  watchman  cries, 
"All's  well." 

Not  as  a  party's  triumph-shout  rings  out  this  people's 
voice. 

When  Life  and  Death  are  in  the  scales,  who  wavers  in 
his  choice  ? 

O  flower  of  nations,  blighted  now  no  more,  rejoice,  re 
joice  ! 

O  morning-glory  of  the  earth  !  thy  garden  in  the  west 
Is  wet  once  more  with  falling  dews  of  peace  and  love  and 

rest. 
Thou  liftest  up  thy  drooping  head.     All,  all  is  for  the 

best! 

Thy  petals  are  the  sister  States.     Though  scorched  by 

battle's  fire, 
Not  one  shall  wither  in  the  blast,  now  hot  with  foemcn's 

ire ; 
But  fairer  yet  thy  leaves  shall  rise,  and  broader  still  and 

higher. 


NOVEMBER   8m,    1864.  311 

No  stain  upon  thy  radiant  disk,  thy  colors  all  re-blent, 
Washed  in  the  thunder-storm  of  war,  to  thee  that  storm 

has  lent 
Strength  for  the  future  that  o'erpays  the  blood  thy  roots 

have  spent. 

My  country,  in  this  hour  of  hope,  0,  send  to  those  who 

bear 
The  burden  of  the  war  to-day  our  help,  our  strength,  our 

prayer ; 
Our  greeting  of  the  coming  day,  our  farewell  to  despair ! 

O  soldiers  of  a  thousand  fields  !     0  brothers  strong  and 


6 


young ! 


Brave  hearts  who  breast  the  battery  fires,  —  heroes  un 
known,  unsung,  — 
Long  galaxies  of  starlike  lives  and  deaths  above  us  hung  ! 

What  record  of  the  historian's  pen,  what  poet's  loftiest 

lays, 
What  parallel  from  out  the  grand  and  stern  old  Roman 

days, 
What  sculptured  monument  those  lives,  those  deaths,  can 

overpraise ! 


312  NOVEMBER   STH,    1864. 

We  slumber  calmly  in  our  beds,  and  by  our  firesides  read 
The  story  of  your  battles  grim.     We  see  you  march  and 

bleed; 
Prom  hospital  and  prison  hear  your  cries  of  pain  and 

need. 

Ye  march  that  we  may  rest,  our  land  free  from  the  slave- 
lord's  rod ; 

Ye  fall,  that  juster  laws  may  flower  from  out  your  blood 
stained  sod ; 

Ye  die,  that  we  may  live  a  life  more  true  to  man  and  God. 

Through  drenching  rains  and  scorching  fires  we  see  you 

fighting  still,  — 

No  rest  by  day,  no  sleep  by  night,  no  joy  your  cup  to  fill,  — 
While  we  step  calmly  to  the  polls  to  vote  the  nation's  will. 

A  little    sprinkling   of  the   rain   while  standing  in  the 

queue, 

We  wait  our  turn  amid  the  crowd  to  see  our  ballot  through, 
Then  homeward  wend,  and  thank  our  stars  we  've  served 

our  country  too. 

A  little  round  of  speech-making  mid  captivated  ears ; 
A  few  intense  mass-meetings,  a  few  huzzas  and  cheers ; 
Some  sleepless  nights,  some  busy  days,  some  weeks  of 
hopes  and  fears ;  — 


NOVEMBER   STH,    1864.  313 

Such  arc  the  battles  that  we  fight  here  in  our  peaceful 

North. 
One  hour  of  life  in  camp  and  field  whole  days  of  this 

seems  worth ; 
Yet  none  the  less  is  victory  won.     The  nation's  will  goes 

forth, 

Once  and  forever  forth,  —  the  arm  is  held  that  beat  it 

back;  — 
Goes  forth  to  unmask  the  traitor's  plots,  hunts  on  the 

foeman's  track; 
Stands  like  the  rock  against  the  sea,  the  sun  mid  tempest's 

wrack. 

From  east  to  west  it  thrills  and  rings,  and  tells  this  lesson 

plain : 
Self-government  henceforth  achieved,  our  seeming  losses 

gain; 
War  leads  to  peace,  and  yet  no  peace  till  slavery's  life  be 

slain. 

O  strange  and  wondrous  Providence,  that  sealed  the  peo 
ple's  eyes, 

Lest  all  too  soon  these  mighty  truths  within  their  creed 
should  rise ! 

AVe  fought  amid  the  clouds  at  first, — how  slowly  we  grow 
wise  ! 


314  NOVEMBER   STH,  1864. 

Those  truths  we  scorned  four  years  ago    now  on  our 

banners  glow, 
Burnt  in  and  branded  on  our  souls,  in  battling  with  the 

foe; 
Ay,  worn  as  amulets  to  shield  our -fame  where'er  we  go. 

We  praise  that  stern  fanatic,  to  death  and  triumph  gone ; 
That  voice  crying  in  the  wilderness,  —  rough  herald  of 

the  dawn. 
Our  John  the  Baptist  is  not  dead ;  his  soul  is  marching 

on ! 

We  cancel  creeds  of  former  days.     Our  timid  codes  are 

null. 
We  leave  our  ancient  council-fires  to  smoulder  low  and 

dull. 
We  trust  the  nation's  newer  life  will  heap  its  measure  full. 

A  breeze  of  morning  sweeps  the  sky.     Old  errors  one  by 

one 
Are  crowded  back  upon  the  south,  a  cloud-bank  dark  and 

dun, 
Or  hang  in  air  like  floating  mists  beneath  the  rising  sun. 

But  still  the  northern  winds  must  blow ;  yes,  still  war's 
bitter  blast 


NOVEMBER   8xn,   1864.  315 

Must  purify  that  poisoned  air,  till,  force  by  right  surpassed, 
Each  groaning  bondsman  breaks  his  chains,  and  all  are 
free  at  last. 

No   half-truth  now !     Our  feet  are   set  upon  a  higher 

ground ; 
No  more  mid  dawn's  uncertain  shades,  by  old  delusions 

bound ; 
The  sun  that  shone  on  peaks  alone  now  fills  the  vales 

around. 

O  trumpet   voices    of  the   press !    O  bards   by   visions 

stirred  ! 

O  leaders  of  the  people's  will !  O  preachers  of  the  Word ! 
Yours  be  the  freest,  truest  tones  the  nation  yet  has  heard ! 

Sound  the  keynote  the  age  demands,  —  Humanity's  great 

prayer ; 

A  sigh  for  peace,  but  not  a  lull  of  foul  and  stagnant  air, 
A  sleep  on  a  volcano's  brink,  a  stillness  of  despair : 

No,  not  that  helpless  apathy,  that  torpor  of  the  life 
Drunk  with  the  chloroform  of  lies,  —  the  amputator's  knife 
Ready  by  one  fell  cut  to  end  the  giant  nation's  strife. 


316  NOVEMBER   STH,   1864. 

0  bleeding   land !    thy  North  and   South   forever   have 

been  wed. 
No  quack  shall  drug  thy  cup,  though  bitter  be  the  draught 

and  red ; 
No  knife  shall  touch  thy  limbs.     I  see,  I  see  thee  lift  thy 

head ;  — 

1  see  thee  smile  with  sad,  stern  eyes,  triumphant  o'er  thy 

woes ; 
Strength  that  o'ertops  the  surgeon's  skill  through  all  thy 

members  flows ; 
Thou  standcst  as  thou  stoodst  of  old,  a  terror  to  thy  foes. 

I  have  no  prophet's  sight  or  speech,  and  yet  I  see  thy 

form 
Looming   above   the   battle-smoke,  unscathed  amid  the 

storm ; 
Around  thy  head  the  skies  are  blue,  the  sunshine  still 

and  warm. 

Peaceful  and  wise  I  see  thee  sit,  earth's  youngest,  fairest 

queen ; 
War's  blackened  wastes  by  freemen  tilled,  all  waving  gold 

and  green ; 
From  North  to  South,  from  sea  to  sea,  no  slave  or  tyrant 

seen ; 


NOVEMBER   STH,  1864.  317 

Redeemed  and  strong  forever.      On  field  and  hill  and 

town, 
All   prophet  dreams   shall   be  fulfilled   in  wisdom  and 

renown ; 
Thy  newer  life  shall  now  begin,  thy  sun  no  more  go 

down ! 


SONNETS  FOR  THE  TIMES. 

APIUL,  18C5. 


I. 

THE  DARK  TOWER, 

"CuiLDE  ROLAND  to  the  Dark  Tower  came."*    What 

then  ? 

The  poet  paints  a  mystery  weird  and  dark, 
Full  of  foreboding.     Bones  and  corpses  stark, 
On  blighted  moorland  and  in  rotting  fen, 
Under  the  knight's  adventurous  feet  protrude. 
Voices  like  gusts  of  wind,  warning  and  taunt, 
Stun  his  bewildered  ears.     The  sunset  slant 
Shows  the  Black  Tower  against  a  sky  of  blood. 
The  hills  like  gloomy  giants  watch  to  see 
His  fall,  as  others  fell.     He  dauntless  blows 
His  horn,  and  fights,  and  tells  the  tale.     So  he 
Who  our  grim  tower  of  slavery  overthrows 
Shall  well  inspire  our  future  minstrel's  strain, 
True  son  of  knighthood,  Roland  come  again. 

*  Sec  Browning's  poem. 
14*  u 


II. 

DELIVERANCE, 

FOR  never  was  a  darker  dungeon  built 
By  king  or  pope  in  the  old,  wicked  time,  — 
The  lurid  centuries  when  the  lords  of  crime 
"Walked  shameless  in  their  robes  of  chartered  guilt; 
Churchman  and  statesman  vying  which  coidd  dye 
With  reddest  ink  of  blood  the  historic  page. 
They  played  their  part.     But  our  illumined  age 
Brooks  not  the  insult,  and  flings  back  the  lie, 
When  slave  lords  fight  against  the  eternal  tides, 
When  truth  is  twisted  from  its  straight  intent, 
And  freedom  blighted  in  its  loveliest  spring. 
The  mask  where  hatred  smiles  and  treachery  hides 
Is  torn  away  at  last.     The  war-clouds  bring 
Deliverance  from  our  long  imprisonment. 


III. 

THE  ABOLITIONISTS. 

BRAVE  men,  far-sighted  seers  !  who  on  the  rim 
Of  your  high  battlements  looked  clearly  forth 
Over  the  fog  that  stretched  from  south  to  north, 
And  called  with,  warning  voices  down  the  dim 
Blind  valleys,  "  Men  are  children  all  of  Him 
Who  made  us  all,"  —  our  cause  for  pride  is  slight, 
That  now  so  late  we  see  the  eternal  Right 
Shining  like  wings  of  heavenly  seraphim. 
True  prophets,  who  discerned  the  cloud  of  war 
Rise  from  the  mist  of  long,  delusive  peace, 
Pardon  the  eyes  that  could  not  pierce  so  far. 
Long  since  the  people's  fears  and  doubtings  cease ; 
Our  hands  no  longer  in  the  darkness  grope  : 
We  share  with  you  your  toil,  your  faith,  your  hope. 


IY. 

THE  DAWN   OF  PEACE, 

FOUR  years  of  war  have  driven  afar  the  dream 
Of  union  based  on  hollow  compromise. 
We  wake  to  see  the  auroral  splendors  stream 
Across  the  battle  smoke  from  opening  skies. 
The  demon,  shrieking,  tears  us  as  he  flies 
Exorcised  from  our  wrenched  and  bleeding  frame. 
0  costly  ransom  !  dearly  purchased  prize  ! 
Eelease  too  long  delayed  !  from  sin  and  shame, 
From  evil  compacts  and  from  brutal  laws, 
Whose  iron  network  all  the  land  encaged. 
Force  never  triumphed  in  a  juster  cause, 
Nor  bloody  war  was  e'er  so  justly  waged. 
Henceforth  our  banner  greets  a  cloudless  morn. 
Peace  dawns  at  last.     The  nation  is  re-born  ! 


V. 

THE  DEATH-BLOW. 

BUT  yesterday  the  exulting  nation's  shout 
Swelled  on  the  breeze  of  victory  through  our  streets  : 
But  yesterday  our  gay  flags  flaunted  out 
Like  flowers  the  south-wind  wooes  from  their  retreats,- 
Flowers  of  the  Union,  blue  and  white  and  red, 
Blooming  on  balcony  and  spire  and  mast, 
Telling  us  that  war's  wintry  storm  had  fled, 
And  spring  was  more  than  spring  to  us  at  last. 
To-day,  —  the  nation's  heart  lies  crushed  and  weak ; 
Drooping  and  draped  in  black  our  banners  stand. 
Too  stunned  to  cry  revenge,  we  scarce  may  speak 
The  grief  that  chokes  all  utterance  through  the  land. 
God  is  in  all.     With  tears  our  eyes  are  dim, 
Yet  strive  through  darkness  to  look  up  to  Him ! 


YI. 

THE  MAETYE, 

No,  not  in  vain  lie  died,  not  all  in  vain,  — 
Our  good,  great  President.     This  people's  hands 
Are  linked  together  in  one  mighty  chain, 
Knit  tighter  now  in  triple  woven  bands, 
To  crush  the  fiends  in  human  mask,  whose  might 
We  suffer,  O,  too  long  !     No  league  or  truce 
Save  men  with  men.     The  devils  we  must  fight 
"With  fire.     God  wills  it  in  this  deed.     This  use 
We  draw  from  the  most  impious  murder  done 
Since  Calvary.     Eise,  then,  O  countrymen  ! 
Scatter  these  marsh-light  hopes  of  union  won 
Through  pardoning  clemency.     Strike,  strike  again  ! 
Draw  closer  round  the  foe  a  girdling  flame  ! 
We  are  stabbed  whene'er  we  spare.     Strike,  in  God's 
name ! 


VII. 
OUR  COUNTRY. 

As  on  some  stately  ship,  with  land  in  view, 
The  last  sea-swell  beneath  her  gliding  keel, 
Sudden,  like  God's  hand  clad  in  blinding  steel, 
A  thunder-bolt  falls  crashing  from  the  blue, 
Shattering  the  mast,  a  sulphurous  cloud  rolls  through 
The  sails  and  rigging,  while  with  quivering  lips 
The  sailors  see  the  deck  all  strewn  with  chips 
And  shreds  and  splinters,  yet  make  all  ado 
To  mend  their  loss,  and  still  the  ship  sails  on  : 
So,  reeling  from  the  shock,  our  Ship  of  State 
Repairs  the  chasm  left  by  the  fall  of  him 
Who  stood  her  mainmast :  onward  we  have  gone ; 
Sound  at  the  core,  though  tossed  by  storms  but  late, 
Nearing  our  port,  we  cross  the  shadows  dim. 


Cambridge  :  Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  Welch,  Bigelow,  &  Co. 


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